


All The King's Horses

by Nauthril



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2020-06-25 16:06:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 42,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nauthril/pseuds/Nauthril
Summary: Beleg felt, more than saw the projectile that struck with a sickening thuck sound into the larger part of his thigh. Someone cried out in pain and surprise, and he vaguely realized it may have been him.The Elf went to yank the dart from his leg, only to find that it was barbed, designed to let its venom overwhelm the victim before it could be quickly removed. The more subtle effects of the spike were nearly immediate, effecting his fine motor skills.His right thigh burned fiercely with every pulse of his heart.Fighting the urge to keep his own two feet from tangling with his steps, the Beleg made every effort to at least stand upright.Or:Beleg fails to return to Menegroth for Túrin’s birthday celebration. Mablung and Túrin set out to find him and bring him home.





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I wish I was making money off of this, but I’m not. This world and the characters belong to the Tolkien Estate. 
> 
> Author’s note: This is my first Silmarilllion/Children of Hurin story and I plan to create a series. My writings will tend to be slightly AU. Firstly, we know very little about Beleg’s life before Túrin, or even before Doriath. Although it is pretty much canon that Túrin stayed in within Doriath until he was 17 and requested a sword and shield. I have deviated from this slightly. 
> 
> Beleg’s age and lineage: I have taken to the interpretation that Beleg was awakened at Cuiviénen and is ancient. He states that the “forest is my father”, and while this may be metaphorical, I’ve chosen not to think so. In the same vein, I think he also probably has known King Thingol, and Mablung for quite some time, as they appear to have much trust between them. 
> 
> I plan to turn this into a small, dramatic series to help explore the friendship between Beleg and Túrin, Beleg and Mablung, and Beleg and the march-wardens. 
> 
> Also: Araw – Sindarin for Oromë, Ulu –Sindarin for Ulmo, Aran Einior – Sindarin for Manwë  
> I tried to stick to Sindarin, since Thingol clearly outlawed Quenya.

_"Many of the Noldor and the Sindar they took captive and led to Angband, and made them thralls, forcing them to use their skill and their knowledge in the service of Morgoth…….. But ever the Noldor feared most the treachery of those of their own kin, who had been thralls in Angband; for Morgoth used some of these for his evil purposes, and feigning to give them liberty sent them abroad, but their wills were chained to his, and they strayed only to come back to him again. Therefore if any of his captives escaped in truth, and returned to their own people, they had little welcome, and wandered alone outlawed and desperate."_

**_The Silmarillion, Quenta Silmarillion, Ch 18, Of the Ruin of Beleriand and the Fall of Fingolfin_ **

~*~

_Present_

It was late into the night in Menegroth. The candles at the long tables in the Great Hall were burning low; a few had already flickered out, dimming the room. Wine had flowed generously, in honor of Túrin’s fifteenth birthday. Tipsy, content elves were meandering their way out. No, Mablung amended, they were _drunk_ Elves, and some were _very drunk_ Elves. 

Unfortunately, for himself, he wasn’t quite drunk enough for the circumstances.

The hunter could count on one hand how often King Thingol had commanded a meeting with him. In his humble opinion, the last meeting had been positively insane. He could do with never seeing another Silmaril for as long as he should live, and being an Elf, that was likely a considerably long amount of time. He shuddered inwardly, remembering the stench of the burning belly of the wolf as he had sliced it open. It had all been rather disgusting, really.

Of course, he had picked the dratted Silmaril up, and he knew very well he was lucky to have escaped a burned palm. He had not originally intended up pick up the stone, but then Beleg had to be wise and offer unsolicited advice. “I am not sure that it is prudent to simply touch that …. _thing_ , Captain,” the other Elf had warned, studying the mass of wolf guts and the glowing jewel, still in Beren’s hand.

Beleg had an annoying way of being right about things, Mablung bemoaned after the fact.

Staring morosely at his goblet, he twirled the last mouthful of wine around the bottom.

He imagined this upcoming meeting had something to do with Beleg’s noted absence. Once Beleg had discovered the date of Túrin’s birthday, he had always made every attempt to return to Menegroth in time for the festivities, and he had not failed in that until today. Túrin was always delighted, wrapping the Elf in a warm hug, pressing him for stories and shoving blackberry tarts at him (which he had discovered were Beleg’s favorite).

To Mablung’s surprise –and the rest of Doriath, Beleg was more than tolerant of the young human. As a matter of fact, a small, quiet smile often tugged at the warrior’s mouth when Túrin was near. 

No one had ever accused Túrin of having a luminous personality, but tonight he had been especially despondent. If Mablung didn’t value his own life, he would say that the young human was _pouting_. Sitting in esteem on King Elu Thingol’s left (Melian sat to his right), he had stared down Mablung for much of the night, as though he was hiding Beleg somewhere.

Adolescent humans could be frightening, frustrating creatures. The mood swings were alarming, to say the least.

The Elf was pulled from his thoughts by the screeching of wood against stone, the sounds of someone pulling back a chair. He sighed, and reluctantly shifted his gaze up to the sullen fifteen-year-old human seated across from him. “He didn’t come,” Túrin stated, crestfallen.

“Perhaps the Orcs were troublesome,” Mablung offered. Something about the slump of the boy’s shoulders pulled at Mablung’s heart strings.

“No,” Túrin insisted. “Orcs are no bother to him.”

“I can tell you some stories to the contrary,” Mablung countered with a smirk. He, indeed, knew some rather humiliating stories. “There was this one time-“

“Mablung!” Túrin stood up, nearly tossing the chair backward. Mablung sized the child up from his seat, evenly meeting his piercing blue eyes with his own grey ones. 

“Túrin, days are getting darker. The border guard probably couldn’t spare him,” the Mablung attempted to reason, hardly feeling like quarrelling with an adolescent. He wished himself anywhere but here.

Túrin was insistent. “You _know_ something is wrong; you who know him better than any.” He glared at the Elf, stubbornly squaring his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height. His noble heritage echoed on his young face, stern and commanding but for the black swath of hair that kept falling into his eyes. He was rather tall for a juvenile human. “I’m not a _child_ , Mablung! Yet you treat me as such.”

“What would you have me tell you?” The Elf replied dryly, refusing to be baited into an argument.

“The truth!” Túrin snapped, with no small amount of frustration. “You are troubled! I am not blind! You worry for him. You have been far away in thought all night,” he accused.

Knowing the futility of denial, Mablung finally conceded. “I am uneasy.” He swirled the wine in his glass once more, staring distractedly at the rich red draft. “It is unlike him to not abide by his commitments.” Beleg was wild as they came, but he was faithful.

Beleg would have sent word if he was able. Mablung recalled a time not too long ago when his friend had sent a rather feisty chipmunk, carrying a little roll of parchment detailing his delay. The creature had put up quite a fuss until Mablung had proffered some dried fruit as a reward, and then insisted on following the Elf around for much of the day begging for more. Of course, this was not an accident on Beleg’s part, no matter how much he denied it with peeling laughter.

It was moments like _that_ when Mablung could wholeheartedly appreciate _why_ Morgoth had set a price on his friend’s head. Of course, it could also have something to do with the Beleg’s proclivity for tracking and killing Morgoth’s monstrosities and generally being a nuisance against the efforts of the Black Hand.

_Ugh_. The price on his head...They had discovered this information months ago while hunting orcs together in the fells. Before choking on its own blood, an orc had cackled, spitting in Beleg’s face, smattering it in black. “A pretty price for a pretty face!.... my lord will have you! Then you won’t be so pretty!” Beleg had driven his sword through the creature’s throat.

Mablung had been much more unsettled by this news than Beleg had been. As a matter of fact, the moonlit-haired Elf had curled his lip in quiet amusement, perhaps even satisfaction.

Mablung couldn’t stop himself from becoming increasingly protective, until duty called him back to Menegroth. Beleg had churlishly told him to stop being such a nurse maid.

“Do you think him dead?” Túrin’s voice was grave.

Mablung stood, leaving his goblet on the table. He paused, carefully considering his reply. “No,” he said at length.

~*~

After managing to wrest himself from his bleak conversation with Túrin, Mablung had made his way towards King Thingol and Queen Melian’s lordly abode.

Coming to a stop before a pair of large, ornate wooden doors, the dark-haired Elf observed the two young guards. Upon his approach they had straightened themselves and were making every attempt to look like the attentive sentries they so obviously were. “Captain,” they nodded in acknowledgement. “What a pleasant surprise.” “Yes, we did not expect to see you here so late.”

Mablung eyed them incredulously for a moment, enough time for them to squirm under his gaze. “Right,” he drew the word out, as though trying to decide if he should reprimand them. Deciding against it, he cut through the chase. “I’ve been summoned by his Majesty.”

“Of course,” the shorter of the two obliged. “Just a moment.” The Elf disappeared between the doors and was only gone a couple of minutes before emerging. “His Majesty is waiting.”

Nodding his thanks, Mablung stepped wordlessly through the doors. Upon entering, he was surprised to find his liege up and _pacing_. Knowing better than to comment on his less than kingly agitation, Mablung bowed low at his hips. “Your Grace, you requested my presence. Please accept my apologies for keeping you waiting. Túrin was rather upset by Beleg’s absence. I feel much the same,” he added glumly, swallowing back some of his mounting anxiety.

“As do I.” The king bid Mablung rise with a dismissive wave of his hand, seeming almost off put by the formality. “Thank you for coming, _mellon nin_.”

Mablung straightened himself, tugging on his dress robes slightly to smooth them and to give his hands something to do. “Of course,” he replied. “I’d be lying if I said I was not troubled. He’s usually never late, let alone missing.”

Thingol pinched the bridge of his nose wearily, squeezing his blue eyes shut. “No, and trouble has a way of finding him, even when he doesn’t seek it.”

Mablung inclined his head slightly, looking up at the tall, silver-haired king. The silence was heavy between them, pensive. As stubborn, prideful, and thoroughly frustrating as King Thingol could be, he also had a way of finding out information, or at least knowing _things_. Mablung waited for him to speak, dreading the upcoming words.

“Do you recall an Elf named Calithildir?” Thingol asked at length, as though he had been decided how to phrase the question, and then given up.

Mablung searched his memory, going back several years. “Of course; is he not ….dead?”

It had been at least a decade since he had heard that name, but he remembered the Elf well enough. It had been a bit of a surprise when the slightly built, young Elf had turned down a starting position in King Thingol’s court, in favor of exiling himself to the Northern Marches. Calithildir had been the son of an Elf-lord and had been raised as an aristocrat all his life, alongside his brother. He had been groomed for politics, and he had the charming qualities to be successful. 

However, he had told his father that he would rather suffer a sword, than the lies of the court. _“We must fight, father! I will not hide here, in paradise, while others lose their lives.”_

To say his father had handled that poorly was perhaps the understatement of the age. Distraught for his youngest son, he had sought out Beleg for his instruction. To his way of thinking, his son had delicate hands better suited for quill and ink, than sword and bow. Beleg had turned him down immediately, desiring to avoid whatever strife was between them. The Elf-lord could not offer him enough gold to pull him into that mess. Besides, Beleg had little use for gold.

Mablung had chided Beleg for this. Beleg had told him to stop being such a bootlicker, much to Mablung’s chagrin. 

_“I don’t care to meddle in the affairs of the aristocracy.” Beleg had argued, emphatic._

Beleg could not necessarily prevent Calithildir from training with the other green recruits, as it would be a slight on his family. It was there he was forced to acknowledge the young Elf’s skill with a bow, and he realized that Calithildir’s talents were most definitely wasted in Thingol’s court.

Reluctantly, Beleg trained Calithildir apart from the others. A comfortable friendship grew.

Calithildir had never enjoyed court life, and he had some stories that had Beleg laughing, despite himself.

They had been nigh on inseparable for some years, until the unthinkable had happened. Beleg and Calithildir were tracking a large band of marauding orcs. Comfortable with Calithildir’s skill, Beleg had them split up to try and snipe as many orcs as possible with their bows from different sides.

A fell storm had rolled in, swiftly from the North. The lightning had been fierce, and the Elves were forced out of the trees for safety. In an exceptionally bright of lash of electricity, Calithildir and Beleg found themselves exposed. 

Forced into close quarters combat, the pair had managed for a time, but it was more than they had bargained for. Then everything had happened at once. Beleg had heard a strangled cry that he immediately recognized as Cal’s yelp of pain. At the same time, Beleg had told Mablung that a searing white light filled his vision, and then his world had gone black. The lightning had not directly hit the marchwarden, but it had struck a tree nearby, and followed the saturated root system, indirectly shocking him into unconsciousness.

When Beleg had regained consciousness sometime the following morning, he had found himself sore, but otherwise unhurt. Somehow, he had escaped burns. The orcs must have assumed him dead. Calithildir was gone. Beleg had searched through the bodies to no avail. He had discovered Cal’s sword, and his bow, with his quiver of arrows. To his horror, he had also discovered red Elf blood dribbled onto the trampled grasses. 

Beleg had managed to track the orcs for some time, but another violent storm rolled through, washing away all their tracks and whatever scent the Elf could pick up.

Defeated by a flash flood that made traveling impossible, Beleg returned to Menegroth to deliver Calithildir’s bow and sword to his family.

Whatever they had said to him, he had never told Mablung. Even so, Mablung had comforted his friend as Beleg had sat in the deeper parts of the forest, stricken silent with grief. From then on Beleg had spoken even less, if that were possible. Calithildir had only been a little over two hundred years old.

He had been a _child._

Then that same year they went into battle under Fingon and his host in the single most horrible battle Mablung could recall. Beleg’s grief had blazed into searing anger, and the orcs and wolves could not get out of his path quickly enough.

Pulling himself back into the present conversation, Mablung realized his King was speaking again.

“He approached the Queen’s Girdle a week ago. Melian perceived his _fea_ when he attempted to pass through it and was unable.” Thingol’s voice was grave.

He didn’t need to say what condition the young Elf’s spirit was in. Mablung read it on his face. Melian was aware of everything in her forest, her sanctuary.

“He’s alive. How is this possible?” Mablung questioned, brows knitting. They had been so sure that he had been killed, or worse, become the orcs’ plaything before being killed.

Thingol frowned at his friend. “Disconcerting, is it not?”

The law was very clear that no Elf once ensnared by Morgoth himself could return to Menegroth. Melian’s Girdle enforced this law when the marchwardens could not.

“He has been in the grasp of a terrible evil for almost a decade. We cannot possibly know the extent of his torment.” Thingol paused, letting Mablung process his words. “Captain, do you truly believe that he merely escaped? After ten years?”

A heavy moment passed. 

The Calithildir that Mablung remembered was young, and albeit more than a bit naïve, but his _Fea_ had been burned brightly, and his heart had always been sincere. He had also been resolutely brave. “He may have, my lord. Beleg saw something in him worth fostering.”

Mablung’s argument sounded hollow in his own ears. He was aware that it was wishful thinking, and he had to concede that the timing of Cal’s return and Beleg’s disappearance hardly seemed coincidental.

But even Maedhros had remained faithful to his people after decades on the rockface of Thangorodrim, with only his pain for company.

Certainly, Calithildir was more noble than some Noldor Kinslayer.

Thingol arched a silver eyebrow incredulously. “There is no reason to believe that whatever part of him Beleg believed in still exists.” The silver-haired king paused, staring at his friend and captain. “You were already planning on leaving.”

“My heart tells me Beleg is in trouble. We cannot know what piece Calithildir has played, but Beleg should have returned, tonight at the latest.” Mablung shook his head. “I fear for him. You know there is a price for his capture or death.”

“He was pleased with that,” Thingol reminisced dryly.

“Of course, he was,” Mablung huffed. “He takes pride in being a nuisance.”

~*~

_1 week prior…_

Beleg sat silently in the crook of an extremely large, and ancient oak tree. Massive branches curled and extended into the other trees. It was one of the warrior’s favorite places to perch during his watch, or to come and sit in solitude. He had come to view the tree as a friend, and he often found comfort wrapped in its branches.

He sighed wearily, leaning his head back against the tree trunk, staring up into the thick foliage. His silvery hair snagged slightly on the rough bark.

He was restless.

Refocusing his eyes into the blackness of night, he peered out into the forest. It was a relatively silent night, almost too quiet. Normally this time of year the surrounding woodland was teeming with tree frogs, and nocturnal birds calling to their mates.

He frowned.

A light breeze shifted the leaves, and the hair at the nape of his neck prickled. 

Something was decidedly very wrong.

Sitting up straighter. Barely breathing, he listened intently. 

He was considering sounding the alarm and waking the others. 

Something caught his eye at the base of the tree and he carefully looked down his nose without moving his body. A cloaked figure was standing just below.

Faster than eyesight could follow, the marchwarden notched an arrow and bent his bow. “Halt! To walk in these woods uninvited bears the penalty of death!”

The being at the bottom of the tree froze. “Beleg…”

Beleg’s heart stopped for a moment.

“Cal….” The whisper was soft, almost inaudible by even the best of Elven ears. This wasn’t possible. Calithildir was dead. This had to be a trick from the armies of the Black Hand. This had to be an illusion.

Even if Cal had survived his injuries, been pressed into slavery, and had managed to escape the thralldom of Angband, it didn’t make sense that the Elf should be here. The journey was long and treacherous, especially when weakened. Outlaws and vagabond orcs combed the unpatrolled land. A weak, lost Elf would be an amusing toy.

“Remove your hood; show me your face.” Beleg’s directions were firm, clear.

Slowly pale, trembling hands reached up to pull back on the tattered cloak, revealing sheared, dirty blonde hair. It curled around the gaunt face at odd angles –cut off near his chin. When Beleg had last seen him, Calithildir had long, curling tresses.

Beleg’s bow returned to his back in one fluid motion. Against his better judgment, he leapt nimbly to the ground, bent knees absorbing the impact of the earth.

Calithildir flinched as the other hit the ground, round powder blue eyes focused warily on the other Elf.

Carefully, ever so slowly, Beleg put his arms up to Cal’s shoulders –scarcely able to believe his eyes. He felt the frail muscles beneath his hands. “How can this be? You’re dead.”

Instead of spurning his touch as Beleg had expected, Calithildir abruptly threw himself against the older Elf. He buried his face against Beleg’s leather jerkin. Beleg found himself cradling the other Elf protectively. “Why did you not come for me? Did I disappoint you so?” Calithildir sobbed into his chest, coming apart.

Beleg held him closer, setting his chin on the dirty hair. There were many things he wanted to say, but somehow the words got stuck in his throat.

Calithildir was beyond listening anyway, trembling against his mentor’s chest as relief gave way to exhaustion. His legs started to give out, and he sagged against the silver-haired Elf. He had used most of his strength to simply travel this far. Had it been winter, he likely wouldn’t have survived.

Tenderly as a warrior could, Beleg hooked an arm under the blonde’s knees, hefting him from the ground and gathering him to his chest. He was not quite feather-light, but he was close enough. Calithildir’s head lolled listlessly over Beleg’s left arm, exposing his throat. Underneath the grime, Beleg made out the faint outline of a red wheal encircling most of his neck, perhaps a scar.

Blistering anger burned in his chest. 

However, Cal’s ears –or rather what was left of them, was what brought hot bile rising to the back of his throat. The delicate tips of poor Calithildir’s ears had been cut completely off. 

He must have squeezed Cal a little too tightly in his wrath. The blonde whimpered quietly and instinctively tried to curl in on himself within Beleg’s grasp. “Shhhh….shhhh,” Beleg soothed softly. “You’re safe, my friend.”

“B’leg….”

“Shhhhh. No more, young one.”

He began the trek back to the marchwardens’ lodgings. Someone was going to need to assume his watch.

Minutes later, their quarters were in view if one knew what they were looking for. The cabin was not easily seen if you were not looking for it, well concealed with many living vines and plants growing over the structure. Shared between multiple warriors, it wasn’t much. However, Beleg was more comfortable here than with all the amenities of Menegroth.

Beleg unlatched the door, calling out orders. “I need heated water, athelas, and clean bandages!”

Elves leapt from their beds, startled. It was clear that they first assumed their leader hurt. In minutes they had stripped the large dining table of any maps, or tankards, and thrown a sheet on it. Someone was stoking the fire to warm water.

Beleg carefully laid Calithildir upon the table top, and quickly realized he had underestimated Cal’s level of consciousness.

As soon as his shoulders felt the wood at his back, Calithildir’s blue eyes flew open –pupils constricted in panic. “S-stop!” He struggled to sit up, to get away. “Please! What are you doing?! _Don’t_!” His chest heaved with his rapid, terrified breaths. He slipped into the Common Tongue. “Let me go! Let me go! _Please_! _Please,_ let me go!” He bucked and squirmed, long legs kicking out at his imagined captors. “Don’t touch me!”

Calithildir’s panicked screams caused several more Elves to peak into the room from an entryway, not daring to get closer, but alarmed all the same.

It took frighteningly little effort on Beleg’s part to restrain the blonde from hurting himself in his terror. When it quickly became apparent that holding the other Elf in place was hardly helping –as the younger had clearly been held in place numerous times, with less than pleasant results, he assisted Cal to sit on the edge of the table top. Keeping a firm, but gentle hold on Cal’s upper arms, Beleg motioned to his comrades to step back for the moment to allow the frightened Elf some space. 

Beleg felt mildly claustrophobic himself, for Eru’s sake.

Cal’s screams had given way to hyperventilation.

“Cal, it’s I, Beleg,” Beleg implored softly. “You know my voice. _No one_ will hurt you here. You found Doriath, my friend.” He rubbed his thumbs in soothing circles on the other’s arms.

Calithildir blue eyes blinked slowly as he focused on the Sindarin.

Hanging his head in shame as he grounded himself and became gradually aware of his surroundings, the other Elf inhaled sharply. “They….I…” He couldn’t find the words.

His cheeks flushed a pale shade of red. He looked as thought he might cry.

A helpful warrior to Beleg’s left brought him some warm water with lye soap (a rare treasure) and a clean cloth. Ever so slowly, Beleg reached into the water and soaked the cloth, wringing it out with one hand. Showing it to Calithildir, he smiled reassuringly. “Allow me?”

Beleg noticed Cal staring at his smile, and he wondered if the younger Elf remembered what a kind smile even looked like.

Beleg carefully set the wash cloth against his hand, separating Cal’s fingers, and worked to gently massage away the dirt and filth. Calithildir slowly relaxed, staring as his pale skin was revealed. Blue veins traced over his hand. As Beleg worked up the younger Elf’s arm he swore under his breath. Mottled bruising, yellow, black and blue, wrapped around the slender wrists. The cruelty was already starting to heal, but it was clear he had spent much of his time in bonds. 

Dipping the washcloth into the water to rinse it, Beleg continued his ministrations carefully along the bruising. Calithildir didn’t make a sound and didn’t flinch. Whatever pain the bruising caused, it was clearly nothing compared to what he had become accustomed to.

After much coaxing and sending the other elves elsewhere, Beleg had convinced Cal to let him remove his tattered, thin tunic. The blonde hung his head, clenching his eyes shut in humiliation of his mutilated skin.

“I’m going to sponge your back,” Beleg advised, knowing that if he just set the cloth to the other’s skin, then Cal was likely to have enough episode.

Cal was unable to suppress a sharp intake of breath as he felt the warm cloth touch his tender skin, but with some notable effort, managed a forced calmness.

Beleg felt his stomach turn as he took in his friend’s back, crisscrossed and marred with wicked scars, some not very old. He had been beaten within an inch of his life at least once. His vertebrae jutted just under his skin, and visible ribs moved with his shallow breath. Deep bruises in various stages of healing mapped his flesh, some of which looked suspiciously like boot prints.

Beleg’s eyes narrowed as he noticed an odd scar, a brand of some sort. It was burned into the flesh of the young Elf’s upper back. Beleg did not understand the Black Speech, but he was certain this was some sort of incantation or spell.

Calithildir remained unmoved under his touch.

When at last Calithildir was clean to Beleg’s satisfaction, the marchwarden managed to ease the younger into a clean tunic and breeches from his own stash. Scooping the shivering Elf from the table, Beleg carried him to his own bunk. The chief march-warden gently nestled Cal into the soft furs and blankets –despite the warm night air, making sure his head was supported by the pillows. “If I make you some tea, you will try to drink it? It will help you to rest, without dreams,” he added helpfully. 

There was no answer.

Cal’s blue eyes stared vacuously at the bunk above him, and he swallowed thickly, unmoving. Beleg wondered if he found the blankets restraining, or perhaps the bunk was too enclosed. Beleg paused, watching the other Elf for a moment before busying himself with mixing a sleeping draught.

Upon returning with another marchwarden, he found Calithildir as he had left him. He appeared almost catatonic.

“Cal, I am going to help you sit up.” He slowly hooked his arm behind the younger Elf’s emaciated shoulders, fully expecting the other to recoil. To Beleg’s relief, the blonde didn’t struggle. “Devedir is with me…do you remember him? He is going to assist me. I have brought you some tea.”

Devedir –a tall brunette Elf, stood slightly behind Beleg, clutching the mug of tea with white knuckled fingers, clearly uncomfortable. He wasn’t as young as Calithildir, but he wasn’t nearly as old as Beleg. He had witnessed elves die more times than he cared to recount, but he had never seen one return from the enemy. He had never seen the consequences of capture first hand.

The young Elf was staring, dumbstruck, Beleg realized. Requesting the tea for a second time, he held out his hand impatiently as Devedir fumbled to hand him the clay mug.

Sipping from the draft to prove its integrity, Beleg fought back a grimace at the bitterness that lingered on his tongue. Medicine was never pleasant, but this swill was exceptionally offensive. Even had they the luxury of honey, it was beyond help. “It’s safe, see? This will help you to sleep.”

Calithildir scrutinized the proffered tea incredulously, and after a moment reached for it with a shaking hand, while attempting to use his other hand to help support himself against the mattress. He probably didn’t enjoy feeling completely useless, Beleg thought tiredly. Beleg helped him guide the cup to his lips and held it gently in place. Cal drank without complaint or grimace. 

“Go to sleep, young one. No one will harm you here.” Beleg handed the mug back to Devedir, easing Calithildir back into the pillows. 

Minutes later Calithildir’s eyes fluttered, as thought fighting sleep. His muscles relaxed, and he seemed to melt into the furs and blankets.

Beleg began to sing, hoping his song of healing might be a balm to the other’s shredded _Fea_.

He waited until the younger Elf’s eyes closed (a habit he had picked up in distress, when blending dreams and reality only added to his trauma) before smoothing back his uneven blonde locks from his sweaty forehead. His breath was even in sleep, shallow. Relaxed, he looked so painfully young in Beleg’s eyes; scarcely more than an Elfling. His pale face was largely unmarred, save for a scar that started at the right corner of his mouth, and faded into his cheek.

“Captain, when are you going to tell his brother?” Devedir asked quietly, but with no small amount of urgency in his voice. “If he finds out he is here before you inform him, he is likely to be furious.”

As a matter of fact, Calithildir’s _older_ brother, Reniedir, was more likely to become homicidal. He had joined the marches shortly after Cal’s supposed death. Lately he had been taking out his frustrations on orcs, and other fell creatures. As far as elves went, he was fey. He would have made a fine Noldor Elf and losing his gentle natured younger brother had hardly improved his mood over the years. 

He had taken to assuming a more remote post, putting a satisfying amount of distance between himself and Beleg.

Beleg sighed quietly to himself. “I will go tomorrow at first light.” He was reluctant to leave Calithildir alone, and vulnerable. He expected the younger Elf to be unpredictable, and he also did not expect him to have everyone’s sympathy. They were curious of him and pitied him, but that would fade quickly. They were at war.

Beleg pulled a chair up to keep vigil at his friend’s bedside, turning it around so that his arms draped across the back. “Who took my watch?”

“Nellion, sir.” Devedir shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. “Pardon me if I am overstepping, Captain, but…. What is to become of Calithildir? Certainly, he isn’t going to be permitted to return to Menegroth? Our laws are very strict on this matter. I know his father has influence -” 

Beleg shot Devedir a meaningful glare. He pressed his lips into a thin line.

Beleg was all too aware of the king’s laws, but he very much did not appreciate being questioned, now of all times.

Devedir’s cheeks and the tips of his ears flushed an amusing shade of pink. “I’m sorry, sir.I spoke out of turn.” He fussed with the mug in his hands, clearly avoiding eye contact. 

“Had this happened to you, you may think differently,” Beleg reproached, continuing to stare down the warrior. “His parents are here. His brother is here. Everything he has ever loved is here. I respect our King and Queen’s laws, but I plan to plead for his admittance.”

Devedir nodded, shame radiating off his now scarlet face. The dirt floor had suddenly become fascinating, and he focused on a pebble, nudging it awkwardly with a booted toe. “You are right of course, sir. I just –there are stories of thralls that do _his_ will.” He continued to play with the empty mug in his hands.

Beleg nodded, knowing there was little use in denying it. He knew the tales well enough, himself. Thingol’s law was not unreasonable.

He thought of the mark on Cal’s back, the brand no one else had seen.

He thought of Cal’s eyes, how haunted they were, yet how transparent. He did not have the eyes of one who had anything to hide. 

Beleg picked up his song again.

Devedir paused to look at the younger Elf, taking in his sunken face, and ghostly pale skin. Uncomfortable, he gave a nod before excusing himself and leaving Beleg to keep his watch.

Unfortunately, Calithilidir’s sleep did not last long and a couple hours later he was squirming under the blankets. His breath quickened in his distress. Beleg put a steadying hand on the blonde’s damp forehead. “Shhhhh, you are safe, _penneth_.”

Calithildir’s eyes fluttered open and he struggled to sit up. He stared at Beleg for a moment, before his feet scrambled on the blankets and he pushed himself against the far side of the bunk. He looked as though he longed to disappear into the wall at his back.

“Peace, my friend,” Beleg offered quietly, in Sindarin. “You are safe, I promise you.”

“They’ll find me. They’ll punish me. Please, please don’t let them. _Please_ ,” he begged in a hoarse whisper. Violent tremors started to shake his starved frame as he hugged his knees to his chest, making himself as small as possible. “I just want to go home…” 

~*~

It took longer than Beleg had anticipated, but eventually he had managed to convince Calithildir to get under the blankets and furs once more, where he had continued to shiver helplessly. Cal had slowly been cajoled into accepting more soothing tea, and an analgesic. Satisfied that the younger Elf might stay asleep for a time, Beleg selected a few of his gentler marchwardens to keep vigil by his bedside.

Looking at the two Elves very seriously, he raised one silver eye brow. “On your heads be it if anything ill befalls him. If he wakes, try to convince him to eat bread or drink water. Whatever you do, do not confine him. We cannot know what he endured, and you will likely do more harm than good. I shan’t be long.”

“We will look after him, Captain. Worry not,” one of the warriors assured, face solemn. “He is your friend. He is our brother in arms. That is good enough.”

~*~

It was nearly dark by the time Beleg returned with Reniedir. The younger Elf looked uncharacteristically pale, and his jaw set. His eyes flickered uneasily from face to face as he trailed behind his captain.

Beleg lead Reniedir to where his brother convalesced. The couple of Elves keeping vigil nodded in deference to their captain, before taking their leave.

Beleg was grateful to see that Calithildir had not changed for the worse, and that he slept still. The marchwardens had been true to their word, keeping him safe. “I’ll be outside. Speak to him, he can hear you.”

Reniedir was entranced by his younger brother’s pallid face. Calithildir’s eyes were _closed_ , his face so very pale. Short, flaxen hair plastered to a sweaty brow, creased in pain. A white, jagged scar zigzagged up from the right corner of his mouth, into his cheek. He was covered to his shoulders in Beleg’s furs and blankets. Despite the heat of the season, small tremors would wrack his thin frame.

Why couldn’t he have remained in Thingol’s court? What had been so awful about wearing silk robes, being home for dinner, and not being tortured and mutilated?

As Reniedir stepped up to the bedside, he did not even register the feeling of his knees collapsing, hitting the dirt floor of their dwelling. Trembling, he reached for Cal’s face. Tenderly brushing the sticky blonde strands from his brother’s forehead, Reniedir’s fingertips grazed the scarred edge of a mangled ear. 

The dark-haired Elf’s breath began to hitch as he folded himself over the younger. He pressed his forehead to Cal’s, hands framing the other’s face. His skin felt so cold. “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry my little brother.” He pressed a firm kiss to Calithildir’s forehead.

Slowly Cal’s eyes slid open, glassy with the combination of the sedative and exhaustion. “Ren’dir?” he whispered, barely audible.

“Yes! Yes, Cal! I’m here now; you’re here now. You’re safe. Do you understand?” Reniedir struggled to speak as his throat constricted with tears that he was desperately trying to choke back. “No one will harm you here. You won’t ever suffer thus again. _I promise_.” 

Calthildir looked at him strangely. “Why are you…crying?” The older Elf understood Cal’s confused expression. He wasn’t exactly known for being affectionate, not even with his own family.

Reniedir laughed bitterly, with a snort, wiping his eyes with the hack of his hands in frustration. “Why indeed?” He ran a thumb slowly over Cal’s cheekbone. “I feared to lose you on this side of the sea.”

“This is real?” Calithildir’s voice was stronger this time, albeit raspy.

“Yes, little one,” the dark-haired Elf promised, accidentally calling Cal by his childhood name, though the blonde had exceeded him in height some time ago. “I am going to take you home to _Ada_ and _Naneth_. Have I ever lied to you?” 

“Yes,” Cal murmured through chapped lips, closing his eyes drowsily. “ …ate my honey cake…”

Reniedir scowled. “You’re delirious.”

“Sc-scoundrel,” the indeed delirious Elf accused with a surprising amount of conviction.

Reniedir smiled faintly, despite himself. He _had_ eaten Calithildir’s honey cake, when they were both mere Elflings, centuries ago. Apparently, he was still unforgiven. This wasn’t too surprising given Calithildir’s penchant for sweet foods and insatiable appetite. “I’ll give you as many honey cakes as you want, Cal. As many as you can eat, for the rest of your life.”

He wasn’t quite sure how he would accomplish this, but that was mere details. He had never baked a pastry in his life, but he supposed he could learn as much.

The thinnest excuse for a smile quivered at the corners of the younger Elf’s mouth. His scar crinkled slightly against his cheek. Reniedir suppressed a shiver at the sight of the mark. He couldn’t help but stare at the mangled ears, nausea rolling in his stomach.

“Ren’dir…” Calithildir stirred, opening his eyes once more. “Do you think they care?”

Reniedir sat back on his heels. He tilted his head, curious. “Whatever do you mean?”

“The Valar…” Cal murmured softly. “I prayed to them.”

From birth, both Elves had been taught that the Valar cared for all…that _Araw_ knew every tiny forest creature, that _Ulu_ knew and cared for even the smallest minnow in the stream.

Then Calithildir had born witness to the unimaginable cruelty of Morgoth’s dark servants, and he finally understood evil intimately, and with horror realized that he had been abandoned to its will. At first, he had simply felt that _Aran Einior_ couldn’t hear him, so buried in the stone and dark of Angband. However, he knew he wasn’t the only Elf praying into the darkness, begging for mercy. He had heard so many fervently whispered, sobbed and screamed prayers. How could so many voices not be heard?

He remembered the moment he had stopped praying to empty air and finally started screaming and pleading to the only Vala that he could see.

Reniedir frowned, staring at the blankets –anywhere but his brother’s eyes, deliberating. “They have concerns greater than ours,” he said at last, not truly believing it himself.

The Valar seemed like distant characters in an old song. He had heard of _Araw_ … Beleg, who was practically as old as Beleriand’s dirt, spoke of the Vala as a fact. However, he had met no such Vala, and the tales were growing cold.

“Does this great evil not belong to them?” the blonde Elf questioned. “Did it not come from across the sea?”

“You border on blasphemy,” Reniedir chided gently, thankful that no one was around to hear them.

“Blas..phemy?!” Cal choked. “They left me….to agony!” His breath was coming in shallow, rapid pants as another wave of hysteria threatened to engulf him. Memories flooded his mind, unbidden. 

He was petrified.

His wet blue eyes connected with Reniedir’s in silent begging. He sat up, setting his jaw. He was fighting the urge to sob. Reniedir could tell from the way his chin quivered.

Reniedir felt his chest tighten painfully. Without thinking, he lightly stood, and climbed into the tiny space by his brother, folding his arms around him, drawing him close and lying them both down. He was immediately reminded of when Cal would crawl into bed with him during thunderstorms. Although muffled by the surrounding caverns of Menegroth, the odd echoes, and low rumbles were enough to send the younger Elfling flying from his own bed.

He had been annoyed with Calithildir then, but now he would give anything for this to be a mere thunderstorm.

The younger Elf clung to him as though he were drowning, wrapping his hands in the fabric of his tunic.

“Shhhh, shhhhh,” he murmured into the short blonde hair. “I have you. You are safe. I will protect you; I _promise_.”

“No one can protect me…protect us. It’s coming, Reniedir…the dark, it’s coming...” Cal sobbed against his brother’s jerkin. “We will all be his slaves.” 

Calithildir wasn’t completely wrong. The dark was coming. The water of the streams even tasted more metallic –like iron, the further North the marchwardens ventured on patrol, polluted from Gorthaur’s abhorrent endeavors. It was getting increasingly difficult to patrol the borders, and more Elves were lost these days.

“Don’t let the others hear you say that…” the dark-haired Elf shushed as quietly as possible, pulling Calithildir tightly against his chest to still his tears. He tucked his head under his chin. “They’ll think you dangerous.”

Reniedir flinched inwardly as he felt how gaunt his brother had become. He could feel Cal’s ribs with every breath, sliding under his skin. He closed his eyes, remembering the Elfling, poking him in the side, and asking him to accompany him down the dark corridors into the kitchens for a snack after everyone else had gone to sleep.

He had always been in insatiable slip of a thing.

Reniedir felt Cal bury his nose against his chest, inhaling deeply of his scent. His heart beat against the younger Elf’s face, but this seemed to be the comfort that Cal desired. The blonde slowly relaxed into Reniedir’s embrace, pressing himself as close to his brother as possible. 

His breathing evened out, and Reniedir watched as he slowly surrendered to sleep once more. Blonde curls clung to his sweaty face.

“I will always do anything to save you, little brother.” Reniedir felt his own exhaustion pulling him under, and finding himself unable to fight it, he kissed the crown of blonde hair before allowing sleep to overtake him.

Beleg discovered the two Elves hours later, asleep still, Cal nestled under Reniedir’s arm. He allowed a smile to split his fair face. Surely, there had to be an exception to the King’s law. 

~*~

That evening, after Reniedir had woken, he gently roused his brother by smoothing his hair. It was still hard to believe that he was here, safe. “Are you not hungry? There may be left over stew.”

Calithildir wrinkled his nose with a disgusted face and went very pale. “I…. I do not think I shall ever eat meat again.” In captivity, if they remembered to feed him, it was usually in the form of raw, stinking flesh. He had learned to eat it or be punished for a lack of gratitude.

For a fleeting moment, Reniedir thought Cal might be sick, but he regained his composure. True rest, as well as the presence of his brother, was going a long way in his recovery, and already he was much less delirious. His skin was not quite so sallow.

“May I have water?” He whispered quietly, clearly not quite sure how to ask. His eyes flickered downward in a submissive gesture.

“Of course!” Reniedir encouraged, picking up on his brother’s hesitation.

He stepped away to find a pitcher and wooden cup. “And then what if I found you some berries? Tis blackberry season, you know.” The dark-haired Elf held the cup to Cal’s lips, helping the blonde to sit up. Calithildir sipped tentatively, as though expecting some bitter liquid. The water wasn’t sweet and in fact was slightly metallic, but it was clean. He emptied the cup, pleasantly surprised when his stomach didn’t roil.

Calithildir paused, his face unreadable. It had clearly been a long time since anyone had asked what he wanted or allowed him to make any decisions. “Thank you, dear brother. Do you think Beleg would stay with me?” Nightfall was coming, and Reniedir was sure that the idea of the dark was unbearable.

“I was going to seek him. We need to speak.”

Calithildir frowned. “As you wish.” He sank back into the cot, evidently feeling tired once more.

Reniedir paused at the meekness in his brother’s voice, but he made no comment. Reaching for the blankets, he drew them up around the younger Elf, tucking him in for rest. “It will be well, you shall see.” He pressed his lips to Calithildir’s forehead. “Just rest.”

~*~

When Reniedir had cornered Beleg outside their quarters, away from the others, and quietly requested Beleg’s company to go berry picking, the older Elf had scarcely been able to register the invitation through his disbelief. Dusk was beginning to creep into the forest, and the evening glow was reflecting golden on the large leaves of the trees. Soon darkness would overtake the world and venTúring out on one’s own would inherent further risk.

The request was insane, but perhaps Reniedir was trying to reconcile their positions.

However, the dark foreboding from two evenings ago crept back into his heart, cold and ominous. Frowning contemplatively at the other Elf’s back, Beleg followed him into the woods. Caution prickled along his spine. 

They carried on, an uncomfortable silence between them.

He knew well enough where Reniedir was leading. There were not many places that Beleg had not gone in Doriath or the surrounding landscapes. There was a small meadow, just outside the Girdle of Melian, where berry bushes had taken up root. It was rather isolated, and not often frequented by any of the Elves, for no reason other than the inconvenience.

The air felt heavy, heavier than the mere humidity of the summer night. The trees were whispering, although Beleg couldn’t quite make sense of their frantic murmurs. 

_Betrayal!_

The whisper of an ancient Elm tree all but slapped him across the face, causing him to halt. Narrowing his eyes at Reniedir’s back, he found himself unsurprised. 

“Reniedir, what have you done?” Beleg growled, feeling the ominous pressure of an attack. Silver eyes scouted the surrounding foliage suspiciously, darting back and forth. All the while he kept the dark-haired Elf in his sight.

“I only wanted Cal back!” The younger Elf looked uncharacteristically distraught, turning on his heel to face his Captain. “They would have killed him! They think us all warlocks. I couldn’t let them-” 

“ _Who_ would have killed him?” Beleg demanded, struggling to follow Reniedir’s babbling and simultaneously assess his surroundings.

“The Easterling _humans_!” Reniedir could see the unspoken questions on Beleg’s face and hurried to continue. “They captured me on one of my patrols, and I fully expected to die, but they took me in bonds. They’re bounty hunters, slave traders, they have no honor!”

At this point, Reniedir looked absolutely miserable and Beleg nearly felt bad for him, only nearly. “They had Cal,” he continued, in a low whisper. “They were willing to trade.”

Beleg was listening, but his eyes continued to flicker from the bushes to the trees. They weren’t alone; he could see shadows shifting in the thickets. “So, you thought my life a fair trade for the safe return of your brother?” Reniedir had clearly helped orchestrate an ambush, albeit a sloppy ambush.

Being outnumbered, Beleg reached for his horn, to call for help. He cursed internally as he recalled he had been unable to find it before they had left. It made sense now. Reniedir had probably been sure to kick it under a piece of furniture.

Reniedir looked like a recalcitrant Elfling. “It wasn’t that simple.”

“I would have helped you,” Beleg offered, even though he also felt as though he could strangle him. “You don’t even know the evil you have done tonight.” 

“I couldn’t bear your _pity_!” Reniedir spat; renewed by a surge of anger. His head snapped up to glare at the older Elf, blue eyes burning darkly.

A stick cracked. Beleg had an arrow notched faster than eyes could follow. 

He let the projectile fly, no hesitation in his movements. A body crumpled noisily into the brush.

“We can discuss this more later,” Beleg ordered, notching another arrow, whirling on Reniedir. “You have two choices: get control of yourself and aid me, or you die. Do not forget your brother in this moment.”

Beleg did not want to kill him; he truly did not. He had never killed another Elf, and he hoped he would never have to.

Reniedir sized up his options. A moment of hesitation flickered across the fair face of the dark-haired Elf before he nodded is allegiance and whipped his bow off his back. Stringing an arrow, he shot it directly over his Captain’s shoulder, sending it deep into the neck of a swarthy human.

Together, they both stood a good chance of escape. Beleg was a formidable force on his own. He was lithe and strong, and Belthronding was singing in his hands.

Unfortunately, their assailants had no intention to play fair or honor any previous negotiations.

Beleg felt, more than saw the projectile that struck with a sickening _thuck_ sound into the larger part of his thigh. Someone cried out in pain and surprise, and he vaguely realized it may have been him.

The Elf went to yank the dart from his leg, only to find that it was barbed, designed to let its venom overwhelm the victim before it could be quickly removed. The more subtle effects of the spike were nearly immediate, effecting his fine motor skills.

His right thigh burned fiercely with every pulse of his heart.

Fighting the urge to keep his own two feet from tangling with his steps, the Beleg made every effort to at least stand upright.

He became nebulously aware of multiple humans coming from behind trees and thickets –more men than he had thought there may be. They weren’t necessarily tall –not like the men of the House of Hador, or Hithlum in general. They were average size or shorter, some rather stocky. Their clothes and beards were dark.

Easterlings. Bold Easterlings, at that, to come so close to Doriath’s boarders. They were quite far from home. Apparently, they had felt that the bounty on Beleg was well worth the risk of encountering a score of angry Elves.

His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and no matter how much he blinked, his vision remained blurred. Black filled his silver orbs as his pupils dilated. He realized his bow would be of no more use to him.

The Elf moved to release Belthronding and go for his sword. He realized his sluggish fingers had already dropped her.

What toxin _was_ this?

Throwing a glance over at Reniedir, he saw the other Elf on the ground, struggling to remain on his hands and knees. He looked _grey_.

A man came over, kicking Reniedir soundly in the ribs, and the Elf collapsed onto his side. He curled into himself protectively.

His own bow lay uselessly at his side.

Beleg made another valiant attempt to straighten his spine and look these men in the eye. 

Even drugged as he was, Beleg noticed these humans were regarding him with caution, if not fear. That was at least satisfying. 

Seeing the heavy rope netting in their hands, he smiled bitterly in challenge, the acidic taste of poison starting to flavor his mouth. His grey eyes, although struggling to focus, burned angrily. His tongue felt numb and clumsy in his mouth.

Recognizing that his strength was quickly waning, he reached for his sword. He was not going to go down without a fight.

The first of the nets was cast over the Sinda and although he was significantly slower, he managed to slice it through. Before he could recover, another overlay the first. Then another. The combined weight of the nets and the effects of the poison were enough to finally sink Beleg to his knees. His world felt off center, not spinning but not exactly still. It vaguely reminded him of a time he and Mablung had imbibed too much wine.

A boot drove between his shoulder blades; pressuring him into the forest floor, holding him firmly in place until he felt his ribs creak under the pressure. He wanted to fight, but he found his body helpless to follow his will. A hobnailed boot connected with Beleg’s side, driving the air from his lungs. 

A boot crushed his wrist, forcing the sword from his already weakened grasp.

As the nets were peeled from him, he soon found himself kicked in his midriff once more. His quiver was torn from his back and tossed into the brush. A leather cord was wrapped uncomfortably tight around his wrists, which were pulled abruptly behind him. 

Hastily, the humans relieved him of the rest of his weapons, including a knife he was particularly fond of that he usually kept in his boot. It had been a gift from Túrin.

“Not sure what the Lord Melkor sees in you, putting such a price on your pretty little head. That was _easy_ ,” the human scoffed. Wrapping his hand in Beleg’s long silver locks several times and hauling him to his knees, “I expected more of a fight from Elu’s finest.” 

Beleg longed to spit in his captor’s face, but his mouth was unbearably dry, likely another effect of the drug. He settled for a piercing glare, which caused the dark-haired man to smirk.

Reniedir was on his knees as well now, shoved beside Beleg. His chin was dangling against his chest, clearly suffering from stronger effects than his captain. He could not even raise his head and was struggling to stay upright.

“All of you will die for this.” Beleg promised, words forming sluggishly in his mouth. He squared his shoulders to be as defiant as possible. “My King will have you hunted, to the ends of _Arda_.”

Although, given King Thingol’s lack of care for the events of Beleriand, he felt this was rather unlikely. Mablung, however, was not beyond going past the boarders to wage a little war of his own.

“You won’t live to see it,” the man countered snidely, releasing Beleg’s hair and reaching down to grasp the dart in Reniedir’s leg.

“Miss me, little _Elf_?” With a wicked twist and pull, he deftly removed it. The dark-haired Elf opened his mouth in a silent scream, breath hitching for a moment before slipping back into his drug induced compliance. He shuddered in pain but was otherwise still. Hands on his shoulders held him upright.

“Cowards!” Beleg snarled. He was old enough to know silence would serve him best, but he was in too much pain to be so rational, his mind felt fuzzy and he was downright angry.

The burly human renewed his grasp in the silver hair and yanked Beleg’s head back, before reaching down and cruelly twisting the dart in the Elf’s thigh. Red blood oozed from the wound, and Beleg swallowed the start of a scream at the unexpected pain. His heart hammered against his ribcage as he wrestled himself for composure.

It hurt, but it was hardly the worst he had ever felt.

The swarthy man smirked as he watched the blood drain from his captive’s face. The bolt was suddenly ripped from Beleg’s thigh in one motion. Beleg was unable to repress a shout of pain as he felt his leg tear open.

“We merely evened the odds, _Elf_ ,” the man laughed, wrenching Beleg to his feet by his silver tresses to pull him to their horses. Beleg’s legs felt like lead, but they held his weight.

The man behind Reniedir attempted to haul him to his feet. Unfortunately, the other Elf required a bit more support. His legs gave almost as soon as they were asked to bear weight. Whatever they had been dosed with had been entirely too much for his body, regardless of his Elven abilities.

Beleg grimaced as his chest was bodily shoved against the saddle of a horse. Poor creature, that horse. “There you are Elf, up you go.” The silver-haired Elf stared calculatingly at the horse, contemplating the odds of escaping for help. “Go ahead, if you want your little friend to die. Then again, maybe you wouldn’t mind, seeing as he sold you to us. We’ll make sure he suffers.”

After seeing the condition of Calithildir, Beleg had no doubt that they would make good on that promise.

Beleg cast a side long look at Reniedir, who looked helpless, supported by two men and hardly aware of his surroundings.

Holding his head high with some notable effort, and audibly sniffing in derision, Beleg sized up the horse. It was tall, at least seventeen or eighteen hands high at its withers. 

He set his left foot into the stirrup, clumsily –for an Elf, swinging himself onto the animal. He cringed as he felt human hands righting him in the saddle. Beleg could feel blood trickling down his right thigh.

Reniedir was pulled up onto another horse, one of the humans behind him to hold him in place. Beleg was sure that they cared not if the Elf was injured, but they did not want to be slowed down by him toppling from the horse.

The Chief March Warden growled under his breath with repulsion as he endured similar treatment and one of the Second Born sat to his back in the saddle.

~*~

_Present_

Túrin tried to be an obedient foster son. He truly did.

However, he felt that given the circumstances, he was doing the best that he could.

He was going to return the sword, after all. He was merely borrowing the blade.

It wasn’t the mightiest sword in King Thingol’s weapon store, although he had considered borrowing Aranruth, then decided that he wasn’t suicidal. He also could hardly lift the blade, let alone weird it properly. It was designed for someone of Thingol’s stature and strength.

No, Túrin had chosen a rather plain sword, though still clearly of Elvish make. It was not one that would be quickly missed, but it would serve its purpose. It fit easily enough in his hand, and he was reasonably confident that he could control it. He had given a few trial swings for good measure and was satisfied enough.

He was going to find Beleg, and to that point, he was going to slowly _kill_ whoever dared to harm him.

Packing minimally to lessen his chances of being caught, Túrin had left with some dried fruits, meat, and some cheese, wrapped in a cloth in his pocket. He had also taken some kingsfoil and a roll of clean linen bandages.

He had been taught the basics of tracking by his Elven mentor, even though Beleg had insisted that Túrin was never completely listening. It would have to be enough now.

Túrin despised hiding, as though he was committing some wrong. Unfortunately, he knew that the guards would never wittingly let him pass onto the bridge at this hour, to venture into the vastness Doriath. Waiting in the shadows, he observed the two Elven sentries closely. It was hard to guess their age, but they were likely young for Elves, too inexperienced to serve further from the city.

Their attention was suddenly drawn to a commotion on the bridge, as a figure jogged lightly towards them. The sentries drew no weapons. The messenger was an Elf.

The runner stopped before the young guards, bowing lightly in greeting, still panting to catch his breath. He was dressed in simple green and brown, a sword at his side, and the flicker of Elven mail glistened from underneath the collar of his tunic. Across his back was slung a quiver and bow. Long, dark hair hung in a single braid, pulled away so as not to slow him down on his errand. 

He must be one of the marchwardens. Túrin knew they all tended to dress alike, able to blend effortlessly into the forest. He had seen them on Beleg’s return trips, in green and brown, colors muted by the elements.

“I have urgent news for our King and Queen,” he managed between gulps of air, running a hand over his face to clear the sting of sweat from his eyes. He looked exhausted, for an Elf.

Túrin felt his muscles tense. His heart started to hammer against his ribs.

The guards looked at one another, then a voice they knew all too well interjected, “Well met, son of Meldor!”

Mablung had come to the gate. He had traded his dress robes for the march-warden uniform. A bow and quiver hung on his back, while his axe hung at his side. He was prepared to leave.

The runner bowed reverently to the captain. “Sir! I must speak to the King and Queen. My errand cannot wait. I have news regarding Captain Beleg.”

Malung reached out, hands clasping either side of the other Elf’s shoulders. For a second, Túrin thought that he might shake him. “What of Beleg?!”

Túrin had never heard Mablung sound frightened. There was a timbre to his voice that the boy did not recognize.

The other Elf grimaced. “I cannot speak of it here, sir.” He averted his eyes, as though afraid his captain would read the message in them. 

“I’ll escort you to our King. Nothing shall interrupt your errand,” Mablung assured quietly, releasing the other Elf and gesturing to the entrance to Menegroth. The runner nodded and started towards the open gate.

Túrin considered the moment, torn between following the messenger and using this distraction to cross the bridge over the churning water. He desperately wanted to know what the messenger knew regarding Beleg. However, he knew if he tarried, he only increased his chances of being caught before he could escape to find his friend.

Turning away from the gate, and the Elves, Túrin crept forward into the mist that rose from the ravine and water below. It did not take as much effort as he had originally thought it might to melt into the dark of the morning, and his spirits rose as he found himself halfway over the bridge without discovery.

~*~

Maethron, son of Meldor went down to one knee before his King and Queen. “Thank you for receiving me at this hour, your Majesties.”

He felt slightly humiliated kneeling before his liege and lady, soaked in sweat from running in the summer heat, dirt and pollen sticking to his skin, and his tunic. His cheeks were flushed.

Neither the king nor queen seemed tired in the slightest. Perhaps they had not even been asleep yet tonight. Although, none truly believed that Melian had ever slept a night in her life.

He felt Melian’s eyes on him, staring into his heart, and he worked to suppress a tremble as she perceived his message. He could not bring himself to look beyond the stone pavers at his feet. He could not speak. His tongue felt numb, whether it was from her magic or his own nervousness.

“Beleg is in the hands of evil.” Melian’s melodic voice was calm, eerily so.

Maethron nodded, tremoring in earnest now from his exhaustion and fear. Carefully raising his eyes from the floor, he scanned the room to steal a glance at Mablung.

The Captain’s face was drained of color, and he looked undeniably ill, while at the same time looking beyond livid. Altogether, he made a terrifying picture. “ _Araw’s balls_ , Maethron, what happened?!” He barked, before he could stop himself.

Maethron winced. He could feel himself wither. Looking to Thingol and Melian, he silently requested permission to speak. King Thingol nodded, albeit impatiently, and bid him rise, relieving his knees. 

“We are uncertain as to the logistics. We found blood, and this,” he reached into his own quiver at his side and withdrew a single black arrow. “It was the only arrow undamaged, sir.”

Dailir, Beleg’s “lucky” arrow, was immediately snatched from his hands by Mablung. The older Elf held it reverently, scouring it for damage. He couldn’t explain it, but there was magic in this arrow. A spell was on it. Beleg did not understand it himself, however, he never failed to find the projectile. 

“Reniedir is missing as well. We assume they were taken together.” Maethron continued, encouraged to speak by adrenaline and his loyalty to Beleg. “His brother is staying under watch in one of our guard houses. He came back to us several days ago. He’s …” The dark-haired Elf searched for the word. “Unstable? Out of his mind more like.”

By now Mablung was pacing, something he was aware of, but unable to stop lest he take Maethron by the front of his tunic and shake the rest of the information from him. Clutching Beleg’s lucky arrow in his hand, his knuckles went white.

“Who took him?” He questioned bitterly. It wasn’t as though it was easy to get the jump on Beleg. No bumbling orc was going to surprise him fast enough.

“Easterling men,”Maethron replied carefully. “There were bodies. He and Reniedir managed to take down several of them.”

“Several?” Mablung repeated. He had seen Beleg clean up an entire orc hunting party singlehandedly. “Several” sounded like a severely low count between two Elves who were trained killers.

“Yes. But one or both took injury. There was blood and some strange barbed darts. They were much too small to be arrows." Maethron gestured to the size with his hands. “The ends were a strange color I have never seen.”

Poison, Mablung guessed, ice settling in the pit of his stomach, along with sickening guilt. Of course, that was the easiest way to capture an Elf was strong and quick as Beleg.

He should not have left Beleg on the marches by himself with the price of Morgoth haunting his steps. He should have been more diligent. He should have insisted on him returning to Menegroth. He should have dragged him back by the tip of his pointed little ear.

“And why did the marchwardens fail to free him?” Mablung hissed, fear bringing him close to losing his temper. “Why is he not among us? He’s your captain, for Arda’s sake!”

Maethron swallowed thickly, before drawing a deep breath. He spoke in a rush, as though he would never take another breath. “Sir, orcs came upon us. They were strong in number. They had planned this attempt on our boarders. Tilion did not guide Ithil into the sky that night. Some were injured. We prevailed against the orcs. But we had to recover the wounded and we feared to leave the boarder unprotected, compromising our oath. Without more of us hale, our numbers were too few.”

He left out the fact that they were struggling to heal the wounded, as Beleg was not only their leader, but their healer. No one had song spells as powerful as the ancient Elf, besides Melian herself, perhaps.

“Is that all?” King Thingol’s voice should have echoed in his vast chambers, but it did not.

Maethron lowered his head. “Yes, your Grace.”

“Thank you Maethron, son of Meldor, for your service to your King and Queen. Go now and rest,” the king dismissed the warrior.

The marchwarden bowed at his hips, before turning on his heal to leave.

Mablung watched the other go, then turned to face his liege. “Your Grace, it would seem the tales the messengers of Dor-lómin bring are true; there is unrest among the Easterling tribes there. Else why are they past the confines of Hithlum? The orcs are unsurprising, though that is bold, even for them.” He suppressed a shiver. His long fingers unconsciously tightened their grip on Dailir, winding around the arrow. “Your Grace, give me leave to take twenty warriors with me, that we may show justice on these men, and reclaim Beleg. Surely, we cannot abandon him.” 

Thingol nodded, almost eagerly. “I thought you may never ask for assistance, stubborn as you are.” He also knew that Mablung was very eager to be gone and taking even less than half a company was going to delay him. Mablung must be very worried indeed, to be this reasonable.

Mablung shook his head, some of his dark hair sliding over a shoulder. “You know, your Grace, that I will have to kill him when I return with him. How he gets himself in these situations is beyond me. I daresay a fortnight in the cells would do him some good.” 

Melian smiled quietly, but it was a smile that did not ease Mablung at all. Not a single bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there was chapter one! I plan to update as often as possible, but honestly it will probably be sporadic. Between work, and multiple hobbies. The good news is that chapter 2 is in the editing stage, the bad news is that this took me quite a while to write. 
> 
> Were I to update consistently, I'd say it would be a weekly, to bi weekly thing. 
> 
> Lastly, this is unbeta'ed, as my beta reader has a lot going on currently. I like to think I did reasonably well at editing out mistakes. 
> 
> Thanks and please review:)


	2. Chapter Two: Brooches and Elf-Magic

** All of The King’s Men **

_Chapter Two: Brooches and Elf-Magic_

_“…..he [Hurin] says that the Men that have lately come over the mountains are hardly better than orcs.” **–Túrin, “The Children of Hurin”, page 44.**_

They had been traveling for the past two days, by Beleg’s count. So far it had been blessedly uneventful, but noticing the restlessness of the men, he was sure that was going to end tonight. The summer heat was not as sweltering, and with the cool breeze came heightened moods. They didn’t behave as Elves, occupying their minds with song and meditation. Men had not the patience of ages, and perhaps not the skill. He didn’t know very much about humans, but he knew that these humans were not of any of the houses of the _Edain,_ as Túrin was. They were traitors, they were without morals. He well remembered –as did many an Elf, the betrayal of the Union of Maedhros.

One thing he knew; he did not survive the bloodiest, most costly battle against Morgoth to die here, bound like a slave. If the Valar had spared him, it certainly couldn’t have been for _this._

It was also all that he could manage to keep Reniedir out of trouble, although he was tempted not to bother.

Coming out of the haze of the drug, Reniedir reminded Beleg of a baleful, wet cat. It did not take much effort on their human captors’ part to goad a reaction from him, which of course earned him a slap or a cuff on the head. A man by the name of Serthich seemed to enjoy striking the dark-haired Elf at any opportunity. The leers and glowers Beleg would catch the human giving his comrade promised nothing good to come. All Beleg could do was scowl meaningfully at Reniedir and hope he would get the message and stop making a scene.

They had been traveling swiftly, but they had enough space behind them without pursuit that they could afford to slow down. Beleg was sure that this did not bode well. Bored men were more prone to evil.

Dusk was coloring the sky purple; soon it would be nightfall.

They made camp at the base of a large hill, in the closure of some bramble thickets. Beleg had to admit it was a decent enough spot; one he might have chosen himself.

The Elves were pulled from the horses and made to sit on the ground with a strong kick to the back of their knees. Heavy, strong leather cords were wrapped around their ankles, over their boots, and secured excessively tight. Nothing but a knife would free them, the knots held fast. The cords that bound their wrists had been moved in front of them as the men realized very quickly that feeding your captives took some amount of work if they could not use their hands. However, the bonds were still painfully tight. Beleg didn’t even have to look at his wrists to know that the pale skin was turning an angry purple. He had lost sensation in his fingers long ago, which had passed from a painful thrum to nothing. 

He watched Reniedir from the corner of his eye, taking in the condition of the younger Elf.

The left side of his face was darkened with a sizeable bruise that looked painful. His bottom lip was already swollen and broken, scabbed over with dried blood.

“Stop provoking them,” Beleg whispered in hushed Sindarin. “They won’t continue to restrain themselves. The one with the very long hair truly doesn’t like you.”

Reniedir frowned at the older Elf. “Is that an order?”

Of course, he would ask.

“Yes,” Beleg retorted. Not that Reniedir was ever the best at following orders. He fit the role of ‘spoiled aristocrat’ more than his brother ever did. He was much used to getting his way.

The dark-haired Elf rolled his eyes, drawing his knees up to his chest and throwing his bound arms around them to create a place to rest his chin. It was as close to sulking as he could get given the circumstances.

Beleg watched the humans gather dried debris and wood from the thicket to create a fire for themselves. Soon they would be into their cups, and that’s when he was certain there would be trouble. It was probably too late to protect Reniedir, as they were not likely to forget his most snarky comments. The dark-haired Elf did not know as much Mannish or Common Tongue as some of the other marchwardens with more experience outside the borders, but he knew enough to be insulting, and what he didn’t know he more than made up for with enthusiasm and creativity.

Calling them “orc-fuckers”, for example, had gotten him quite a bit of attention and none of it good.

The night carried on without incident for a couple of hours, allowing the captive Elves respite.

Beleg stole a shrewd glance at Reniedir’s thigh, where the poisoned dart had been. It did not appear to bother the other Elf overly much, and Beleg took that as a good sign. His own wound was no longer painful, and he was mostly healed, typical of an Elf so ancient. 

Reniedir continued to pout, his chin resting on his knees. He glowered at the men as they meandered around their fire.

Beleg watched the dark-haired Elf quietly, and he could feel himself frowning as he wrestled with his thoughts. On the one hand, he wanted nothing more to do with the young, cocky thing. On the other hand, he felt the urge to try and find some sense of closure, if for no other reason than to express how much he regretted Calithildir’s torment with all his heart. There was a high probability that they were both going to die. If nothing else, Reneidir was surely tempting fate with his belligerent insolence. 

Beleg grimaced to himself as he cleared his dry throat, which suddenly felt rather constricted, like he had swallowed his own tongue.

“I am sorry for your brother’s hurts,” Beleg offered quietly. “You must understand, I would no sooner him harmed than cut off my own hand.” Beleg was practically ambidextrous, but that was beside the point.

Silence.

Then, “he’s two hundred and fifteen years, Beleg. Do you _honestly_ think he had any serious notion of the evil in this world? He fancied children’s tales overly much.”

Beleg was quiet for a moment, considering. He wouldn’t believe that Cal had been so naive. The very idea made his heart ache twice as much. “Calithildir knew. He once said every council concerned war or a consequence of war and he was tired of merely talking about it.”

Reniedir’s lips were pressed into a thin line, reflecting.

Beleg looked at the sky, and the twinkling stars. “We are tied to the fate of Arda, Reniedir…. That is an excruciatingly long time. Better to do what you feel is right, regardless of consequences than to have to bear regrets for all the ages to come.”

“I dare say I’m a little past that,” the other Elf scoffed, belying his apprehension.

“I cannot argue that you didn’t make a huge mistake,” Beleg agreed. They could thank Reniedir for this entire situation. “You’ve committed treason, you know.”

Reniedir raised a dark eyebrow, staring off into the distance. “I only wanted to find Cal. I _had to_.” Beleg raised an eyebrow at the insistence of the others’ words. The hastily mumbled response nearly caught Beleg off guard. “I swore an oath.”

Beleg stared at the younger Elf thoughtfully, head tilted. Things were starting to make some sense, but he still was not so sure that he had caught the other’s words correctly. “Oaths get many a person into trouble, young one.”

“Yes,” Reniedir spat, agitated. “And don’t call me that.” He was so easy to wind up.

“Tell me, what would have happened had he been dead?” Beleg pressed calmly.

“I knew he wasn’t,” Reneidr snapped.

“How so?” Beleg countered.

“You have no family. You will not understand.” Reniedir stated despairingly.

“Humor an ancient Elf.” Beleg had seen much in his life, and at this point there was very little that genuinely surprised him. He wouldn’t say his life was at all boring, but it did seem to be predictable. At least until recent days.

“He’s my younger _brother_. He followed me everywhere all my life,” Reniedir started slowly, searching for words. “We share the same blood. His hurts are my hurts. I felt his pain. It would wake me at night. I could hear his screams in my head.”

He was watching Beleg, as though waiting to be chastised.

“You knew it wasn’t a dream,” Beleg stated, sympathetic. He had heard of Elven siblings being so close. It was relatively rare, but it did happen. Especially to those born close together in their years, or in the case of twins.

“It continued when I woke.”

“Surely you told someone?”

The Elf scowled at that. “Who would I tell? It’s a little too peculiar of a thing to discuss, and my parents would have thought to have lost me to madness. I tried praying, just as I could hear Cal praying. Then one night he didn’t pray again.”

“And that’s when you joined us,” Beleg finished, piecing things together.

“Yes, but not before I swore an oath, stronger than my oath to our King. I damned myself to the void, should I not bring Calithildir back alive.”

“And where did you learn to do such an awful thing?” Beleg was uncertain of Reniedir’s exact age, but he was far too young to have come up with this on his own. He supposed he sounded a little patronizing, but it was truly a stupid thing that Reniedir had done.

“Everyone knows what Fëanor and his sons did,” Reniedir scoffed.

“Everyone also knows that they will all meet a wicked end. All they do with good intention will go to evil,” Beleg admonished. “They have cursed themselves. You’ve cursed yourself.”

“I know what I’ve done,” Reniedir snapped, fear making his words sharp.

“I fear that you don’t,” Beleg answered, as though talking to a child. In all reality, Reneidir was a child, a very petulant child. His younger brother had possessed far more sense.

“I kept my oath,” the younger Elf growled. “I’ll not go to the void.”

“Yes, and you betrayed your kin. Betrayed your liege. Betrayed your queen, from whom we have everything.” Beleg had to suppress the bitterness welling up in his chest. “The oath is already doing evil. All such oaths do the Enemy’s work in the end.”

“You think me a fool.” 

“You can only blame so much on an oath, young one. Even _Maedhros_ knows that,” Beleg replied. Selling him to these barbarians had been no accident.

Reniedir must have had nothing to say to that, averting his gaze from Beleg and letting his breath out in a huff. Beleg was perfectly content to end the conversation himself. He was tired in a way he had not been in a long time, and although he pitied Reniedir, he feel himself struggling to suppress his rage.

The melodic Sindarin whispers had been enough to catch the attention of the men, growing increasingly agitated around their fire after dinner. Unaccustomed to beautiful voices, they had been unable to help but pause to listen. Too soon, they meandered their way to the Elves, a few of them already stumbling a little on the uneven, shadowed ground. 

The Elves conversation was interrupted by the throaty voice of the man Beleg had come to know as Bölwög, the band’s leader. As predicted, he sounded and smelled intoxicated. Beleg crinkled his nose disdainfully, able to smell the sour alcohol at a considerable distance. He was sure fermented piss smelled better.

“Good evening Elf,” the man crooned, mirthless smile falling onto Reniedir.

He kicked Reniedir’s healing leg with the toe of his boot when the Elf didn’t acknowledge him and continued to stare at the grass. Usually this would have garnered some spit from the younger Elf, at the least, a curse.

“No need to play coy,” the human continued. Seemingly unsatisfied by the lack of response, the man went for the jugular. “You know,” the he said slyly, returning Reniedir’s gaze, “your brother moaned like a little whore when I cut the tips of his pretty ears off.”

Predictably, Reniedir’s back stiffened.

“It’s probably the only sound he could make by that point,” Bölwög sniggered darkly at the memory.

By now several more men had created a small circle around the two captive Elves.

Reniedir didn’t understand every word Bölwög said, but he understood enough. 

“Why?” Reniedir bit out. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could justify torTúring his little brother, and yet Beleg realized the younger Elf was seeking closure all the same.

Bölwög smiled, and stooping down, ran his hand in a mocking caress down the dark-haired Elf’s bruised cheek, catching his smooth chin between his thumb and forefinger. “He meddled in affairs ill-fitting a slave.”

Reniedir jerked free, finally losing his so carefully cossetted patience and spitting in the human’s face. Saliva caught in the man’s black beard.

“My _brother_ was never your slave!” He snarled; his fair face fierce in the firelight. His hands twisted in his bonds as he struggled to free himself in a fury.

Bölwög smiled, running his tongue along his teeth, not striking the captive as was his usual wont. “Oh, but he was. He feared me.”

Beleg groaned internally as the man’s gaze fell to him, resisting the urge to curl his lip in a sneer. The humans, while reeking with the desire to harm him, reeked equally of fear. It was gratifying, and yet it really did not help their situation.

Of their captors, Bölwög was the boldest, but even he could not completely hide his intimidation from the legendary warrior. Beleg was deceptively strong, even for an Elf. He knew it, and they knew it. “My men are restless. You are a commander. You understand. They need rewards to keep them going, or their confidence wanes.”

“I don’t purchase the loyalty of my men with base pleasures and the pain of others,” Beleg replied, very much not liking the direction that this conversation was going.

“Ah yes, the _noble_ Cuthalion, such an _Elf_. Perhaps if you had, this one,” he nodded at Reniedir, “wouldn’t have been so quick to trade your life.” 

Belegs scoffed a little at that.

Bölwög’s attention returned to Reniedir. “My men have been wondering, _Elf_ , if your screams are as sweet as your brother’s. Wagers have been placed, and we’d rather like to find out.”

The younger Elf glared, doing his best to put a brave face on things, but it was clear he knew that he was in over his head. He shot Beleg a short, pleading glance, as though the other Elf might somehow spare him. It was ironic, Beleg thought. At the same time, he felt powerless. He could no sooner save this young one than save himself. An awful feeling settled in his stomach.

Patience apparently run out, Reniedir snarled, “what are you waiting for?!” 

Bölwög smiled appreciatively. “So eager! You’re already a lot more talkative than your brother,” the human compared, recalling the blonde Elf. Calithildir would never see his reflection and not remember Bölwög. He had made certain of that.

Beleg had heard enough. “You are a coward. If you want a challenge, why don’t you try your methods on _me_? You may not find me to be so helpless.” He eyed the men fiercely, daring them.

Mablung would be furious at him right now, Beleg knew. _“You old fool,”_ Beleg could hear him chastise. _“Must you always cross the line from bravery to stupidity?!”_

“Where you’re going, you should be more worried about yourself.” Bölwög leaned down, his breath ghosting hot against Beleg’s ear. It reeked of wine and terrible hygiene. Beleg didn’t flinch. “You should have stayed in your little magical forest.”

Bölwög drew away, a sneer on his face. 

“If we are going to discuss boundaries, aren’t you a little outside of your own? Run out of slaves in Hithlum? Or maybe it’s the rivalry? Not getting along with lord Brodda? Or perhaps lord Lorgan?” Beleg shot back, refusing to be cowed. The bow of his upper lip curled up into a snarl, displaying his perfect white teeth. For a moment a small surge of triumph jolted through his system, knowing his words had found their mark.

Reniedir swallowed nervously, and Beleg imagined that he was grateful to be forgotten about for the time being.

Anger flashed in Bölwög’s dark eyes, and he looked Beleg up and down furiously. “You know nothing Elf.”

Now it was Beleg’s turn to smirk. “Exiled. I thought so. Keep waylaying and taking people for slaves, and the surrounding villages and their lords will hunt you like stray, rabid dogs.”

“Where are your Elves, Beleg? Where is their hunt?”

Beleg was a little curious as to that as well, but for the past three days things had hardly made sense. His mind was spinning keeping track of all the pieces.

Bölwög must have found the conversation to be tedious, because he smirked at Beleg before nodding at Reniedir, signaling his men to collect their captive. If he had wanted to make Beleg feel helpless, he was near succeeding. The warrior had the sudden thought that these men may just murder Reniedir simply to spite him.

Reniedir struggled as he felt their hands grasp his arms, hair and tunic, hauling him up to his bound feet. A hand circled around grabbing his throat and wrenching him backwards into a broad chest, his neck bent precariously backward over his captor’s shoulder. Laughter erupted from the surrounding humans, and Reniedir’s cheeks turned a deep shade of pink. Whether it was in anger or humiliation, Beleg couldn’t be sure. 

“Stop!” Beleg shouted, feeling more desperate than he liked. “Let him be! If fun is what you want, have it with me.”

Bölwög looked past Reniedir at the taller man behind him, holding the Elf in place. “What say you Serthich? T’was his arrow which slayed your brother all those months ago.”

Well, Beleg grasped woefully, that certainly explained why Serthich had already murdered Reniedir hundreds of times with his gaze, let alone struck him as often as he could find an excuse.

Serthich tightened his hold on Reniedir’s throat, causing the Elf to squirm in mild panic as his airway constricted. He looked pitiful, and Beleg cursed secretly as he wracked his brain for a way to save the fool. “According to our customs his blood is mine. Would you dishonor me and deny me this?”

Bölwög opened his mouth to speak, but Beleg spoke first.

“His father is an Elf-lord of King Thingol’s court! He is his eldest son, and worth more alive. I imagine his father would pay you twice his weight in gold to receive him unharmed. Perhaps more.”

Serthich glared venomously at Beleg. “You lie!”

Beleg returned the glare bitterly. “You know I don’t.” 

Bölwög’s dark eyes caught and held Beleg’s silver orbs, as though trying to read his thoughts. “And how, _do_ we know you tell the truth?”

“The brooch from his jerkin. Serthich took it, from under your nose. Ask for it. You will see it is in the image of a heron. That is the sigil of his father’s house,” Beleg explained.

Reniedir was gaping at him with something akin to horror on his face. Bölwög saw it as well, and his eyes settled unyieldingly on Serthich.

“Where is it?” he snarled, stepping menacingly toward the other man, hand on the pommel of his sword.

Serthich, realizing his mistake, backed up a pace or two, dragging Reniedir backward with him. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. He’s just trying to save this one’s life!”

Reniedir hardly dared to breathe, but his eyes flickered nervously to Beleg.

Beleg watched calculatingly from the ground. “The pin itself is probably worth a bit. It is most likely an heirloom of some sort,” he added helpfully. “Is it customary for your men to steal from you?”

Bölwög was not the quickest study, but he knew blatant manipulation when heard it. “Shut your mouth, Elf! I’ll not hear another squeak from you!” And yet… “Serthich, where is it?”

He drew his long sword, a rather ugly, but sturdy weapon. Beleg had seen much better. It was suitable for a ruffian, he supposed.

Serthich shoved Reniedir to the ground with enough force to knock the breath from his lungs and drew his own sword, which was impressively ugly. “He murdered my brother! Whatever spoils come from him belong to me by right!”

Several other men drew their swords, clearly willing to back up their captain, preferring to be on the winning side.

These men squabbled as much as any pack of orcs.

“Are you challenging me?” Bölwög stepped closer. “I’ll gut you and leave you for the wolves!” Reaching down, he grabbed Reniedir by the collar of his tunic and started to drag him away from the other man. “Go ahead and run, Serthich! You won’t last on your own.”

Seeing his death one way or another, Serthich balked, and finally reached into his cloak, producing a piece of jewelry a little bigger than a gold piece. It was in the delicate image of a flying heron, gold, engraved with perfectly detailed feathers. All and all, it was a fine piece of Elven smith work. He threw it flippantly toward Bölwög, who caught it in one hand.

Turning on Beleg, Bölwög stalked over to the moonlit-haired Elf. Forgetting his fear of the warrior for a moment, he tangled his hands up in his hair, shoving the brooch beneath his nose in an unspoken question.

“Yes, that’s the one,” Beleg stated matter of fact, hardly seeming ruffled by the fact that his hair felt like it was going to detach from his scalp. “He hails from the House of the Heron.”

“House of the Heron,” Bölwög repeated thoughtfully, releasing Beleg’s hair and turning the brooch over in his dirty palm. His eyes trailed over to Reniedir, who looked like he wanted nothing more than the earth to swallow him up. “Does your father love you?”

“Yes,” came the whisper, as the dark-haired Elf remained groveling on his stomach, helpless. He was painfully aware of he had narrowly escaped a surely slow, and gruesome death. Beleg had never seen him so humbled.

“We’ll find out how much. Hopefully more than he loved your welp of a brother,” Bölwög scoffed. Swinging his sword to point at his men, he commanded, “no one touches him! Am I clear?”

They nodded, and slowly started to disperse, muttering disappointment in the night’s activities. Serthich left last, glowering at the brunette Elf promisingly. If he were to get Reniedir alone, he would certainly make sure he knew how angry he really was.

To Reniedir’s credit, he returned the glare.

Bölwög stood above him and tickled the tip of his sword under the Elf’s chin, forcing him onto his back. “You’d better hope you’re worth something. If you’re not, I’ll skin you myself. That’s a promise.” 

Turning to Beleg, he scoffed. “You’re clever, Elf. If this is some trickery, I’ll make sure you hear him scream. And I’ll make sure he screams a lot. I can’t do worse than what will happen to you, but I can make his life painful until the last breath.”

Beleg shrugged, “it’s no trick.”

Beleg watched as Bölwög pushed the tip of his blade into Reniedir’s throat, just enough to draw blood. Reniedir held his breath. “Cause me any trouble, and I’ll send you to your father in pieces, starting with your fingers.”

Reniedir said nothing, holding as still as possible. His eyes he kept open, glowering up at his captor as much as he possibly could with a blade pinching his skin. With a sneer, Bölwög sheathed his weapon, and returned to the fire with his men.

Reniedir immediately sat up, gasping for air like an Elf drowning. Beleg did not miss the trembling of the younger Elf’s hands, no matter how ardently he was trying to hide it. They were currently latched together, white knuckled.

A moment passed between them. Then, softly, “Why did you help me?” Reniedir stared at Beleg questioningly. 

Beleg sighed quietly to himself. Drawing a deep breath, he replied, “I would not help the Black Hand accomplish his work, even to avenge myself or my King.”

“My father is going to be so frightened. And my mother….” He bowed his head, and for a second Beleg thought he might cry. To Reniedir’s credit, he maintained a stiff upper lip when he lifted his head. “Oh Beleg, what have I done?”

Later that night, Reniedir finally gave into his exhaustion, laying down on his side with his back to Beleg. The older Elf suspected that he may have shed some silent tears, but he wasn’t entirely certain. Elven pride could be a powerful thing. Beleg felt a strange protectiveness for the dark-haired Elf, who looked so utterly bereft. He knew that the other damn well did not deserve it, but his heart could not help itself. Up until this point, his life had been devoted to the protection of others weaker than himself, and he was finding that he was unable to give that up, even for the sake of self-preservation.

The camp was largely dark, the fires had long ago died down to embers, which glowed orange with the breath of the cool breeze. Beleg ordinarily enjoyed this time of the night and the surrounding quiet, and the bright stars. Unfortunately, being bound securely hand and foot made it difficult to appreciate at present.

Two guards were awake, but only barely. It would have made escape rather convenient were it not for the fact that Beleg found himself unable to feel his legs, let alone loosen his bonds.

Someone shifted in the center of the camp, rising to stand. He narrowed his eyes, recognizing Serthich in the dark. Beleg had hopes that the man was merely getting up to relieve himself, but his instincts disagreed, and were unfortunately correct. The man carefully picked his way through the dark to the captive Elves. He had not forgotten the night’s events.

Beleg did not move, sitting on the ground with his tethered legs to his side. He narrowed his eyes at the man, doing his best to convey his disgust without words. Serthich kneeled on one knee beside Beleg, and brushing his beard against the Elf’s cheek, he breathed a whisper into Beleg’s ear. “You think you’re so clever. You think you can manipulate us. I’ll repay you, of that you can be assured.”

Beleg was not sure why, but he couldn’t deny the strained laugh that bubbled up at the threat. He supposed he was possibly losing his sanity, but this threat was the least frightening out of all of them that he could think of thus far. “Why wait?” he taunted, lips curling into a smirk.

Serthich did not take the taunt, and Beleg felt a slight bite of disappointment. Either he would have died or Serthich would have. “You just don’t know when to stop trying, do you?” He hissed in Beleg’s ear.

Beleg had always regarded himself as reasonable, but the abduction had him feeling rather _unreasonable_ these days. To that point, he probably _didn’t_ quite know when to stop pushing his luck. He was angry, he was grieving, his heart was stinging in his chest, and if he was completely honest, he was more than slightly afraid. He didn’t fancy being thrown at Morgoth’s feet. Although he was sure that Morgoth was in a slightly better mood since the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, he knew he had slighted the Vala on more than one occasion.

He knew well the tale of Maedhros, and he had witnessed Gelmir’s torment and demise at Angband’s gates, before they were plunged into battle. He imagined his fate would be similar.

He smiled almost sweetly, leaning in closer to the Easterling. “You’re all talk. You won’t touch me.” Scoffing, Beleg met the man’s eyes steadily.

“Some things are worth waiting for, Elf.”

oooooooo

_Present_

Túrin had not been this far from Menegroth without Beleg or Nellas since he was a boy who had lost his way. What had begun as fiery determination was quickly boiling into frustration. The air was hot and sticky. This deep in the forest, there was hardly a breezye and the humidity hung like a stale blanket under the canopy of leaves. His clothes were soaked and sticking to his skin. He was tired. All these things on their own he might have managed without complaint, but he was beginning to recognize that he was most definitely lost.

He had always thought he had understood the forest as well as any Elf, but now the trees all looked the same. He had lost his sense of direction. He knew that there was a trail that led to the Northern Marches, but in his desperation not to get caught he had deigned not to take it.

A mistake on his part, although he was loath to admit it.

“Oi Beleg, my friend, what would you do?” he asked under his breath, into the humid summer air. He had never known his friend to give up. If anything, Beleg appreciated being challenged.

Glancing up at the canopy, where he could see the sunlight flittering through the leaves, he wondered if a view from above may help him. Perhaps he was close to the boarder? Or perhaps there was landmark he may know. He and Nellas had climbed plenty of trees, or more accurately, he had climbed plenty of trees and Nellas had scolded him to come down lest he break his neck.

Beleg had never scolded him for climbing trees. His mouth would twist in quiet amusement, and then he would quickly surpass Túrin in the tree, drawing an angry shout from him.

Túrin pushed the memory aside, and sizing up the trees nearest him, he chose one. The branches were a little lower than the others, and the bark was rougher. These trees were old and large and to find branches low enough to use to swing up was difficult.

As he was stretching to grasp one such limb, he suddenly felt something slam into him, and he was falling backward. He hit the soft earth of the forest floor, and startled, fumbled for the hilt of his sword. He scrambled backward from his assailant, only to find what looked like a scrawny excuse for an Elf scrambling backwards opposite him.

The Elf was blonde, with shortly cropped hair. His powder blue eyes were huge in his gaunt face. He was barefoot, clad only in an ill-fitting tunic and breeches. Túrin had never seen a scar on an Elf. However, a white scar zig zagged along this poor thing’s cheek, starting at his mouth. His ears were no longer pointed, rather the tips had been cut completely off. His Elven race was only obvious for his height, and beauty unable to be completely diminished by scars.

He appeared to hardly breathe for his fear.

“It’s alright!” Túrin called out in Sindarin. “I’m not going to hurt you-“

The Elf stopped scooting backward and instead appeared torn between terror and confusion. 

It was then Túrin realized that perhaps he wasn’t used to hearing a human speak in his language, let alone being dressed in the garb of the Sindar of Doriath. Gently, as though talking to a skittish horse, he asked, “are you alright? Whatever happened to you?” 

The Elf stared at him, panting for breath, trembling with exertion and fear. “You’re a human?” he asked in stammered Sindarin.

“Yes, but I live among the people of Doriath.” He slowly rose to a crouched position, carefully gauging the blonde-haired Elf’s reaction. “Someone hurt you.”

It wasn’t a question.

The Elf didn’t move. 

Túrin stood to his full height, extending a hand to help the other to his feet.

The Elf stared at his hand cautiously, then slowly extended his own. Túrin suppressed a wince when he saw the bruising winding around the wrist. Túrin closed his hand around his, helping the blonde to stand. Once standing he was at least a head taller than Túrin. He turned as though to run, but Túrin gently firmed his grip on his hand. “I shan’t hurt you. I promise.”

Túrin shifted his feet awkwardly. He had the strangest feeling that if he let go of the Elf’s wrist, then he would run.

“I shan’t hurt you. Let me help you. What is your name?”

“Cal, that is what my friends once called me,” the Elf murmured softly, relaxing a little in Túrin’s unrelenting grip, although Túrin suspected he was simply too weary to fight.

“I don’t have many friends, but we can be friends if you would like it.” Túrin knew he didn’t have time for this, but he had never seen one of the Firstborn reduced to such a forlorn state, and his heart was breaking for the Elf’s clear pain. He knew Beleg would never abandon someone who needed his aid. Beleg would be the savior of everyone; he’d leave no one behind.

Túrin felt that he should try and do the same. 

The Elf said nothing, but he slowly nodded. His eyes seemed transfixed on something. Following his gaze, he realized that Cal was staring at the broach on his left breast, a simple silver leaf. “A dear friend of mine gave me that,” Túrin explained cautiously, denying the urge to step back.

“Beleg,” Cal murmured softly.

Túrin froze, blue eyes lightning up. He wanted to grab Cal and shake him. “You know him?! Have you seen him?!”

For a moment the Elf looked like he was going to be sick, his face had gone even more pale, if such a thing were still possible. “He’s not here anymore.” He began to struggle to remove his hand from Túrin’s grip, but the boy tightened it. He felt the Elf’s pulse hammer in his wrist at the restraint. He realized he may be holding Cal’s wrist too strongly, despite his efforts to be kind.

“No, please. Don’t go. We’re friends, remember?” Túrin cautioned, although his tone was demanding.

Had Cal been at his full strength, and this been a different time, Túrin would have been no match for the tall, lithe Elf. Things as they were, the Elf was rather fragile.

“I am trying to find him! Please, you have to let me go!” Cal exclaimed in what amounted to a horase whisper, sinking to his knees, rather than attempting to flee. His wrist hung limply in Túrin’s grip, as he effectively surrendered. “He left with my brother. They never came back.”

Túrin felt nauseated, torn between rage and fear. Hiding a glower, he wondered suspiciously who this Elf’s brother was. Contrary to popular belief, Beleg did not get on with everyone, although he had never once confided these things to Túrin. Túrin had discovered this separately. Being King Thingol’s ward had its advantages.

Looking at the Elf kneeling at his feet, he had never seen an Elf so helpless and frightened in his life. His father, Hurin, had spoke highly of the Elves, and Túrin certainly had grown to love and admire them, even if he found them to be haughty and stuck up from time to time.

Silently, three figures came upon them. Clothed in green and brown, they were clearly marchwardens. They drew no weapons, but their faces were serious. Túrin, ever the protector, instinctively stepped between the seemingly defenseless Elf kneeling on the forest floor and the warriors. Cal did not say anything, but he did not look particularly pleased to see the other Elves. “Step aside, my lord,” one of them commanded. “He isn’t well. He’s delirious.”

“What happened to him?” Túrin asked, his tone suspicious, arching a dark brow.

“We are not rightly sure, my lord,” one Elf explained, appearing to be less aloof than the other two. “He went missing years ago. Now he has returned to us, but he has fits of delirium.” The warrior paused, sighing miserably as he resigned himself to Túrin’s temper. “Does King Thingollo know you are so far from home?” 

Túrin turned his face into a scowl, and he stared at the brunette Elf before him, feeling rather affronted. “When did you become my keeper? These are my foster-father’s woods. Am I not free to come and go as I choose?”

The Elf chewed on his lip, looking for all the world like he wished he were anywhere else. “I’ll take that as a ‘no’, my lord.” 

“Take it how you like,” Túrin snapped, squaring his shoulders. He could not see Cal, but he was certain he felt him flinch.

“My lord, my sworn duty is to his Grace, not you. You will have to come with us for the time being.” The immortal being stood tall, staring down resignedly at Túrin, and the boy could imagine that the Elf was very much lamenting his career choice now. “We have not the resources to escort you to Menegroth tonight, so our humble quarters will have to suffice.”

Túrin pressed his lips together, feeling his temper rising. He felt his ears turning pink, as a wrathful flush creeped up his neck. “I’ll do no such thing,” he stated.

“And how, Master Boy, do you plan to avoid it?” the Elf questioned, brow raised in haughty frustration. They had more pressing matters at hand than being forced to play sitter to not only a delusional Elf, but now a human child.

“Come between me and my quest and I _will_ do whatever I _have to_ , to keep going.”

“Is that a threat?” The Elf scoffed lightly, clearly unconcerned with such things. “How dare you treat us thus? We who have kept you safe, so you can sleep in peace? Do you honestly think Beleg would have this of you?”

The other two Elves circled behind Túrin, and he could hear them lifting Calithildir to standing. The traumatized Elf was silent as a lamb, from exhaustion or fear, Túrin was not sure.

Catching the patronizing tone of the marchwarden, Túrin’s hand darted to his sword. The war hardened Elf was quicker, although it was with some effort that he knocked the blade from the human’s stubborn grasp.

Whether Túrin’s efforts changed the Elf’s mind, or he was simply changing strategies, the boy could not tell.

“Perhaps,” the Elf offered tactfully “We can be of service to this quest of yours. It is to neither of our advantages to quarrel.”

Túrin was weaponless, save for a dagger in his boot, and feeling rather bitter and sulky. “How do I know that I can trust you?” They were clearly marchwardens, and companions of Beleg’s, but his trust was hard to earn.

“You don’t have much choice, Hurin’s son,” the Elf answered calmly, almost nonchalant. “Come with us? We will return to the lodgings and I will tell you what I know of Beleg.” 

Túrin was sure that his compliance was the price for the information about his dearest friend. He certainly had not come all this way to fail now, all the same he did not intend to stay.

oooooo

Once at the lodgings, Túrin and Cal, the oddly scarred blonde Elf, had been ushered into the cabin. Túrin remained standing, arms crossed, and feeling rather arbitrary. Cal, he noticed, immediately went to the farthest side of the room, and sat on what he assumed was the Elf’s bunk space, pulling his knees up to his chin. His arms he wrapped around his legs, as though trying to be as small as possible.

The same marchwarden who had spoken to them in the forest approached the quiet Elf, and crouched at the bedside, clearly trying to be as least intimidating as possible. “Cal, you can’t walk around here. Her Majesty, Melian’s Girdle, won’t allow it. You won’t be naught but confused if you keep trying it.”

Túrin watched as Cal stared at the other with large blue eyes, then focused his gaze on the bed. “I just want to help,” he murmured stubbornly.

“Then stay put, and don’t make us hunt for you,” the brunette Elf said, a bit sharply. “We don’t have the numbers to pursue Beleg and worry about what you’ve gotten up to.”

Cal took a breath as though he may argue, but to Túrin’s surprise the other wasn’t done lecturing. “There’s still orcs roaming around. We hardly finished them off. You certainly don’t want to run into any of them. You can’t even defend yourself; they’ll put a scimitar in your belly, if they’re generous.”

Cal looked away, clearly done with the conversation. His boney hands trembled slightly.

Túrin opened his mouth to speak, but the brunette Elf whirled on him. “And the same goes for you! This is unbelievable.”

Túrin bristled. He did _not_ have to endure this, thank you very much. “What’s _unbelievable_ is that there are still orcs roaming these woods that _you_ should be protecting!” he retorted hotly, not caring to soften his words.

The marchwarden froze, an angry scowl darkening his handsome features. “ _That_ , Master Human, was inappropriate. Have you ever even seen an orc? Do you know what they are capable of?”

“But you’re _Elves_! Surely orcs are inferior,” Túrin pointed out.

The dark-haired Elf pressed his lips into a thin line, clearly running out of patience. “You think you know much. We die just as easily as your kind do, especially when out numbered five to one.”

“I don’t die easily,” Túrin retorted with some venom. 

“Boy, I could kill you right now,” the Elf muttered darkly. “The point is, we are struggling.” He didn’t have to add that he felt they had been fighting an uphill battle for quite some time. It was written on his face.

Deciding to cut through the chase, Túrin prompted, “where exactly _is_ Beleg?” 

Cal turned his head back to look at Túrin, then questioningly at the other Elf. His large blue eyes anxious. He reminded Túrin of a pup, who had pricked up his ears at an interesting sound.

“We don’t know.” The marchwarden settled against the logs, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. His head hung, as though ashamed or saddened -probably both. “Tonight, we will be picking up his trail.”

He looked at Túrin, probably deciding if it was wise to tell the young human all that he actually knew. Apparently, he concluded that it at least could not hurt.

Túrin felt his blood start to boil, as he heard about the poisoned darts, the Easterling corpses, and Beleg’s enchanted arrow. He had every reason to loathe Easterlings, this merely lengthened a well-established list. 

“I’m coming with you.” Túrin had no intention to be left behind.

“I think not,” the Elf replied.

“But your numbers are so few!” Túrin’s protested in earnest.

Cal spoke up softly. “You can stay here with me.” It was more of a request, than a demand. Cal didn’t make demands, not anymore. Demands required some sense of certainty, and Cal had none.

Túrin glowered at the wraith of an Elf, and Cal seemed to grow smaller under his gaze.

The marchwarden pushed himself from the wall, shaking his head. “I have entertained your concerns enough, child. I have preparations to make. You are staying here, that is final. I shall send a raven to King Thingol, letting him know of your safety. No doubt, the Queen knows much of this already.” He paused, cocking his head ever so slightly. He appeared to be listening, but Túrin could hear nothing. “Captain Mablung and his Elves are arriving. Good, they are sooner than expected.”

Túrin blanched inwardly at that. He had hoped to avoid this exact scenario. He had seen Mablung lecture Beleg on more than one occasion. The two friends often spared with words, as much as weapons. 

ooooooo

Mablung was furious, Túrin could tell. Aside from the fact that the captain had done nothing but stare him down, Túrin could swear on Eru that he thought he saw the Elf’s eye twitch.

They were all in the shared quarters of the lodge, with Calithildir still sitting dejectedly on his bunk, watching everyone owlishly. Túrin watched Mablung stare through him, to take in the young, traumatized Elf huddled on the blankets.

Cal looked up at him with a weak excuse for a smile, which didn’t quite fill his eyes. “Greetings Captain Mablung,” he murmured. His voice rarely ever was above a whisper. Whether from damage to his throat, or because he simply had no self-confidence anymore, Túrin couldn’t be sure.

“Calithildir, it is beyond all joy to see you alive!” However, Mablung made no move to approach the other Elf. “I can’t imagine what you have suffered.”

Cal’s eyes turned downward, and he pulled at a loose thread on the quilt. A slight tremor shook his fingers. “I am very tired,” he said at last.

Mablung nodded, not pushing the young one any further. Túrin noticed how Mablung’s eyes lingered on the scar encircling most of Cal’s neck, and flickered to his battered wrists, then his mutilated ears. The older Elf seemed lost in thought for a moment, before he turned his gaze back to Túrin.

Cal let out a soft sigh, as though grateful his attention had shifted.

“I should lecture you, but I think you know very well that you shouldn’t be here,” Mablung’s voice was stern, unyielding. He crossed his arms, staring Túrin down. If he was expecting Túrin to act ashamed, he was going to be disappointed.

“Mablung, I-“

“What are you going to do, boy? Should you even find Beleg, your presence would only make things more dangerous. He would be distracted, and worst of all, he would probably do _anything_ to keep you safe. You do realize that?” Mablung’s eyes were critical. “You’re a _liability_.” 

Begrudgingly, Túrin admitted to himself that he had not thought of that. He had only given thought to Beleg, to him being hurt. He had only meant to protect his closest friend. However, he didn’t much care for the tone in Mablung’s voice, and he bridled at the reproach.

“I’m not a liability, I can help!” Túrin crossed his arms and bored his eyes into Mablung’s silvery blue ones. “Besides, we both know you won’t send me away. You know how it feels, to feel powerless. You wouldn’t do that to me.”

Mablung lifted one dark eye brow, and snorted. “You’re a brat, Túrin.”

At hearing Túrin’s name, Calithildir shot a sudden glance in his direction, eyes flickering worriedly over his form. Túrin looked at him curiously, wondering what had caused the young Elf to look as though he had seen a ghost.

Mablung glared at him warningly, and Túrin narrowed his eyes. “What ever was that about?”

“Never you mind,” Mablung demanded. He ran a hand down his face wearily. “Your foster father is going to kill me for his. Maybe I’ll spend a century in the dungeons, if I’m lucky.”

Túrin smirked, a small pull of his lips. “You’re getting soft in your old age, Mablung.”

“I can still change my mind, boy. And there is one condition.”

“Name it.”

“You cannot go as yourself.”

“That’s not fair! You cannot possibly expect-!”

“We will use Elf-magic,” Mablung interjected, before Túrin had a chance to go into a rage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC...
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! I am beginning to resign myself to the fact that updates will likely be monthly. 
> 
> Poor Calithildir....Poor everyone, actually. 
> 
> Once again, it's unbeta'ed and I am certain there are things I missed.


	3. Chapter 3: Inside the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: This is a heavy, heavy chapter. Character death, torment, and attempted suicide to follow this warning, with some graphic imagery. Although, much is also implied. In my mind, Angband was close to Hell and I imagine Sauron did not get his many names by withholding his cruelties. This chapter may be uncomfortable, which is why it took so long to write. I had to do it in small doses to try and keep everyone in character.

** Chapter 3: Inside the Dark **

_“Then Morgoth stretching out his long arm towards Dor-lomin cursed Hurin and Morwen and their offspring, saying: 'Behold! The shadow of my thought shall lie upon them wherever they go, and my hate shall pursue them to the ends of the world.”_  
― **J.R.R. Tolkien,** **The Children of Húrin**

Mablung had not wanted to share more moments with Calithildir than he had to. It was uncomfortable. The young Elf was in pieces, although he was doing an admirable job holding all of them together. In all honesty, Mablung was not even sure how the other had survived.

He had questions he would have answered before they left. Rescuing Beleg was at the top of his priorities, and he was prepared to give his life, but he had an obligation of safety to the Elves accompanying him. He needed to know as much as possible about this situation, no matter how painful this would be.

They were alone. The others were outside finishing the last of the preparations, which were not many. Mablung was dressed to travel, leather armor and all. However, he had left his weapons out of eyesight of the young Elf. He was sure that his armor looked menacing enough.

Cal looked up at him warily, sitting cross legged on the blankets of the bunk space, hands in his lap. “Captain?” he asked softly. He was wearing one of Beleg’s green tunics, Mablung recognized, and it was sliding off one thin shoulder. Calithildir pulled it back into place a little self-consciously.

“Cal, can we talk, as friends?” Perhaps, in this way, he would appear as least intimidating as possible.

Unfortunately, Calithildir was no stranger to interrogations, and he knew one when he heard it.

Huge powder blue eyes flickered down, overshadowed by long eye lashes as Cal averted his gaze. “Yes,” the traumatized Elf replied, almost in a whisper.

Pulling up a chair as quietly as possible, Mablung sat down slowly, so as not to startle Cal. Quick movements tended to send him into a state. Mablung’s first instinct was to reach out and take the other’s hand, to sooth Calithildir before he began to pry into his memories. However, Mablung had never been good at comforting anyone. And as frustrated as he felt with himself, he was not quite comfortable with _touching_ the other, who had spent so much time in Angband.

“How are you feeling lately?” He asked, at a loss for wear to start.

There was a moment of heavy silence, then, “Exhausted.” Cal’s voice cracked with the admission.

“I’m so sorry,” Mablung offered, feeling like he should do more, but not sure what was appropriate.

Cal nodded his thanks shakily. He sighed and squared his thin shoulders, sitting straighter. “What did you want to know?”

Mablung sighed tiredly. “How was it you came to escape Angband?”

He couldn’t have been blunter if he had tried. 

The younger Elf did not seem surprised by the question. He ran his thin fingers through his short hair, as though trying to sooth himself.

Long moments passed. Mablung began to doubt he would get an answer. Calithildir may not even remember, if the event had been too traumatic.

“I was an object of curiosity for Gorthaur. He…hates waste. None of us were without purpose.”

_Cal was trembling in earnest now, as the large gates to Angband slowly swung open with an agonizing screech, that made him want to cover his ears and cower on the ground. He vaguely realized his knees were folding. Claws dug into his upper arms, thrusting him forward. He stumbled, barely managing to catch himself from falling onto the baron stone ground._

_Angband was vast, and dark. The air was stifling, and his chest burned with each breath from the pollution. And yet it was cold, ice cold. His rapid breaths collected in puffs of steam. The tall, obsidian pillars of Morgoth’s halls made him feel quite small, like nothing._

_He was nothing._

_Ahead was a throne, an empty throne._

_Cal wanted to puke. His stomach was full of ice. His legs weren’t moving, where they? No. He was being dragged forward now. Coarse laughter filled his ears. A slender, tall shape dressed elegantly in black and red slinked from behind the throne. He reminded the young Elf of a cat. His hair was long and cascaded in platinum lengths around his strangely beautiful face. Was this Gorthaur? It must be._

_In one quick motion, Calithildir found himself thrust to the floor. The cold stone bit through his breeches and stung his knees. He was going to vomit…_

_“Beleg, Thingol’s dog, my lord,” the orc captain said, bowing low. He jabbed a boot into the young Elf’s spine, keeping him pressed to the ground._

_Calithildir kept his face down, staring at the polished black stone. He was so cold. Terror gripped his insides. He was going to vomit._

_A hand with long, slender fingers grasped his chin, forcing his gaze upward. A thumb caressed a cut on his cheek, but the touch was far from comforting. Cal longed to pull his face free but found he had not the courage. “This isn’t Beleg, you fools! This…this is an Elfling.” Cat like, golden eyes appraised him and Gorthaur arched a beautiful, platinum brow. “How old are you? 200 years? Speak!”_

_His voice was harsh, suddenly. Commanding._

_Cal flinched, closing his eyes. His breath was coming in quick gasps. Claw like fingernails bit into the soft skin of his jaw, urging him to answer. “T-two hundred and five!” he stammered._

_The beautiful, evil creature smirked, a twist of thin lips. “An infant.” He released Cal’s face. “How came you to know Beleg, infant?”_

_Calithildir bit his cheek, uncertain how to respond._

_“Come now, infant, it’s a simple question. I’ve many more to ask, but that’s the easiest one. Come now.”_

_Calithildir forced himself to look up at the Maia, grimacing. “Beleg was my mentor, my friend.”_

_“Was?” Gorthaur purred._

_“He’s dead. Your orcs killed him.” For a fleeting, minuscule second, Calithildir felt his courage flicker back to life._

_“So loyal. Why, when he left you to us? Do you know what I do to little Elves?”_

_Calithildir swallowed down bile rising in his throat. The nausea rolled in his stomach, despite having nothing to eat for the past couple of days. His trembling increased, and he finally emptied his stomach acid onto the floor. A series of dry heaves followed. Terror squeezed his chest._

_“Ah, I see you do,” Gorthaur laughed drolly. “I ought to make you lick that up.”_

_Calithildir bowed his head in shame, allowing his long blonde mess of curly hair to hide his face._

_“Take him to The Room, and leave him alone with his thoughts,” Gorthaur said with a merciless wave of his hand. “Then clean this mess up.”_

“At first I was questioned….. mercilessly…..He wanted to know about… …about Beleg and the marchwardens. About you…” Cal’s voice drifted off, and he jerked as a shiver race up his back. “He was always careful not to harm my face, because it was ‘too pretty to be destroyed.’” 

_Calithildir was on his tip toes, hands twisted above his head in chains. He had been stripped completely naked, icy water dumped over him, washing off the dirt of the road before being trussed to a metal ring in the ceiling. His shivers continued, equally from cold and fear, this time. He had tried to suppress them but found he had not the energy. His calves ached from the effort to support his weight against the chains. Despite this, his fingers still tingled. His teeth chattered._

_He imagined he looked like a deer, strung up to be butchered. Except he was still very much alive._

_He had been given ample time to survey his surroundings. Long tables with many instruments of pain lined the wall. Another table with leather straps was to his right. Old blood stanned the wood a rusty red or black. He wondered what Elf or creature had been picked apart here._

_He thought of his mother’s beautiful face, her sweet voice. He would never see her again._

_He had heard the tale of Finrod and his songs against Sauron. He well knew the tale of Luthien and her ability to cast a sleeping spell. This was different than those tales. He was no one. He was weak, powerless._

_The door behind him opened, and he felt, more than heard Gorthaur glide into the room. The door shut with flick of the Maia’s wrist. The bang resonated off the walls, and Cal felt his heart hammer in his chest, as he swallowed gasps of air. His hands twisted helplessly above his head._

_“Hello, young one,” Gorthaur hummed, fair face filling Calithildir’s vision. “Is that what Beleg called you? Young one?”_

_Calithildir glared at him, as best as he could with a trembling jaw._

_The Maia’s hand strayed to his face, fingers tracing the deep cut to his cheek. “That will scar. You will have scars aplenty, but not on your face. It’s too beautiful to be destroyed. Wasteful.”_

_Searing heat burned against Cal’s cheek and he turned his face away. He was unable to see it, but he knew the cut had disappeared._

_Gorthaur was eyeing his body appreciatively, like an artist eyes a blank canvas. Cal’s pale, creamy skin was flawless. His cheeks burned in humiliation and he turned his face away, wishing he could hide the flush creeping up his neck. “So young. Life was so beautiful for you.” Gorthaur leaned in close, breath hot against Cal’s cheek as he whispered into his ear. “That’s all over now. You’ll scream for your mother…they all do. And no one will come for you.”_

_It took several weeks, but he did scream for his mother, his brother, Beleg, and even his father, several times._

Mablung noted how pale Calithildir had become, all blood drained from his face. Surprisingly, the blonde continued. “I was kept as Gorthaur’s personal slave…. He said the orcs would do terrible things to me, ruin me.”

_It was days later, maybe weeks. Calithildir no longer understood time. Everything was running together. Everything was dark._

_“If I cannot have Beleg just yet, I will make do with his protégé. You will serve me. You will call me Master,” Gorthaur sneered, tucking some bloodied blonde hair behind one of Cal’s delicate pointed ears, running a thumb up its point. His hand then grasped Calithildir’s jaw and forcefully turned his head to see the pack of orcs watching from a corner of the dungeon. They were practically salivating. “Otherwise…. Well, I’ll give you over to my servants as I have no further use for you, Elfling. They do so love the screams and whimpers of Elves.”_

_Calithildir swallowed hard, attempting to clear his throat. He couldn’t go to the orcs, he couldn’t. “Yes…M-master,” he rasped, hardly able to talk for how hoarse he had become._

_He wept in his cell that night, curled up in a ball, naked, on some moldy straw. Slaves and prisoners were not given clothing without special permission. He missed the stars. He missed his family. He missed Beleg. He missed the sound of rain on the leaves. The scent of dew on the grass. He missed the sun. Unlike some Elves, he had never known a life without it. Terror had passed into numbness, hopelessness, and utter loneliness. If this was forever, he could not endure it._

Mablung shifted, uncomfortable.

“I tried to…..end it, once. Gorthaur caught me. He said I mustn’t do that again, and he branded me…with magic. Then I had to clean my blood off his floor. He said I was ungrateful for his favor.” Cal paused, appearing to be winded, tired. His eyes looked hollow in his face.

_Calithildir felt warm, like he was floating. The sensation wasn’t painful, death wasn’t painful. He had been so scared that it would be painful. Everything was painful here. However, his fear of Gorthaur, his torment and mind games, was greater than his fear of Mandos._

_“I’m sorry Beleg. I’m sorry Reniedir. I’m so sorry,” he heard himself try to murmur. He was so far away. He couldn’t’ speak, his words were slurred murmurs. His breath felt short, but he didn’t mind._

_He heard the door to Gorthaur’s study slam open, and an angry growl. “Foolish, ungrateful little Elfling!” The Maia sounded **incensed.** _

_A cold feeling gripped him, and he realized his soul was unable to flee. Pain, he could feel pain. His wrists were burning, tissue mending with force. Suddenly a white-hot pain lanced across his back in patterns that he could not discern. He came back to his body with a horrific scream that tore from his lungs._

_“That, Elfling, was senseless. I have kept you safe, and yet this is the gratitude you show me? Stealing a knife and slitting your tender little wrists?”_

“He let the orcs play with me after that…they must have had orders. They never touched my face…..”

Cal shivered, and Mablung awkwardly (for an Elf) grabbed a woolen blanket, draping it over his shoulders. The younger Elf clutched it close, like a shield. “One day all of Angband emptied for battle. Gorthaur left, but not before chaining me to a wall in my cell. He said if they lost, I’d be killed by the Noldor. I was _his_ pet. But he told me not to fear, for they would win. Maedhros was a fool.” Cal swallowed dryly. “I still prayed they’d fail. They did not. They brought a man back with them…Húrin…”

Mablung nearly dropped his jaw. Calithildir had seen Húrin. No wonder he had stared at Túrin so strangely. Though he looked like his mother, his name was probably not wholly unknown.

“They questioned this human about Gondolin…repeatedly. I was made to watch.” Cal blinked owlishly. “He…spit in Gorthaur’s face. Gorthaur could not break him. Then Morgoth came himself.” The young Elf’s expression became far away. “I have never been more scared than that moment…He looked at me, once, as he passed me. His face was scarred…. He limped. He is not invincible…. But the raw power made me nauseated. I threw up. Twice. He smirked.”

Mablung was sure the young Elf had pissed himself, too. Morgoth Bauglir, dark Vala, evil incarnate. His own stomach churned just thinking about him.

“Morgoth couldn’t break him. And his rumblings of anger were terrible… I cowered against a wall. I cursed my Elven hearing. Even Gorthaur looked …nervous.”

Mablung could believe it. Morgoth’s temper was great, and his mercy small. He did not tolerate failure. “Morgoth dragged Húrin up to the highest point of Thangorodrim. He cursed him, all Angband could hear it. That boy…..Túrin, you called him? He is cursed, Mablung.”

Perfect, Mablung thought to himself. Of course, the one human child in all Doriath was cursed by a demigod. Splendid. Of course, Beleg would have become involved in something like this. He certainly couldn’t have found any boy wandering in the forest. No, that would never do. He had to find the son of a legend, who was also cursed. When this was all over, Beleg was in for a long conversation, one that involved tying him to a chair and forcing him to listen.

Frowning, Mablung wondered if Túrin knew about the curse. He doubted it, and if he did not, he certainly was not going to learn it from him. Valar forbid, it became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“How was it you escaped, though?” Mablung insisted gently.

Calithildir stared at his fingers, which were playing nervously with the corner of the blanket. “That is…a complicated tale.”

“I need to know it,” Mablung pushed, less kindly than he probably should have. But less harsh than he felt. “Beleg is gone, Calithildir. Gone, and here you are. You know what this implies, what this looks like.”

Calithildir stared at Mablung fearfully, desperately. His jaw worked wordlessly for a moment. “I wasn’t set loose, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“Not that you know of,” Mablung insisted quietly. “You were missing for years.” He wanted to believe in the young one, as Beleg would. However, he was finding it increasingly difficult. He did not think that Calithildir was evil, more like he was just young enough, just naïve enough, just traumatized enough, to be easily manipulated.

It also did not make him anymore trustworthy that Gorthaur had thrust his Fea back into his Hora. Mablung was no authority on necromancy, but he was sure that this had left terrible spiritual scarring.

“Please, Mablung, you have to believe me.” Calithildir’s plea was so plaintive it squeezed Mablung’s heart. His blue eyes were huge, imploring. Perhaps realizing he was going to get nowhere without explanation, the young Elf swallowed nervously. “Gorthaur usually kept me close. One day, he took me with him inspecting the mines. I found myself pulled into one of the dark tunnels by two Elves. They were planning a rebellion. They needed help. I agreed to assist. I was turned loose before Gorthaur could miss me.”

“He never found out?”

“No….If he had so much as suspected I was conspiring against him, I would have been put to death in the most painful way imaginable.” Calithildir said this so calmly, so matter of fact, that Mablung was unable to suppress a shudder between his shoulder blades, causing him to twitch a bit oddly.

“So how did you…assist these Elves?”

“They needed someone to be their eyes and ears, isolated as they were in the mine.” 

Mablung sighed quietly to himself. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that Gorthaur did not know anything of this. The fact that Calithildir wasn’t tortured to death probably only spoke volumes about how much Gorthaur did, in fact, know. This had been a game to him. He did not need further information; he had been a cat enjoying the antics of the mouse. 

Calithildir’s next words only confirmed Mablung’s suspicions. 

“The day of the rebellion, everything went wrong. I found myself separated from everyone after the partial collapse of a tunnel. I thought for sure that I would be trapped in the dark for an eternity, except I felt a cool breeze, and upon following it, found myself outside of Angband, in the mountains.”

“I doubt you wandered the mountains for nine years,” Mablung said a bit emphatically. “Where were you for all these years?”

Cal pulled the blanket tighter around himself. His curly, blonde hair hung over his face in short ringlets as he bowed his head. “In the world of Men.”

“I see.” Mablung couldn’t stop himself from arching an eyebrow in surprise.

“I was starving. It was the dead of winter. I saw their fire. …. I thought….I thought I might receive aid.”

Mablung felt his heart sink. Beleg and the marchwardens chiefly dealt with Brethil, whose men were honorable. Not all humans were so trustworthy, as the Battle of Unnumbered Tears had proven. “They enslaved you.”

_“And what ‘ave we got here?” the dark-haired man laughed from his seat near the fire, as Cal found himself thrust into the circle of light that the flames provided. A hand was snarled in his long blonde hair, holding his neck at an odd angle. “You’re a pretty thing.”_

_“That’s a bloody Elf! Look at those ears!”_

_“It just walked up to us?”_

_“Guess so!”_

_“Looks like he’s had a rough go of it! Kind of a scrawny thing, ain’t he?”_

_“Think he can understand us?”_

_“Elf! Where did you come from?”_

_Calithildir’s heart was pounding against his ribs, like a caged bird. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t move. His mind was in another place, in the dark. He felt frozen._

_“He doesn’t understand, stupid thing.”_

_“Yes, he does.” A harsh slap caught Cal across his face, and he yelped in surprise. In Angband no one had touched his face. Blood ran from a split lip. “He just needs proper motivation to answer.”_

_The slap was enough to pull Calithildir into the present, where he realized his hands were being forced behind his back, bound with leather thongs, much too tightly. “Please…let me go. I mean you no harm,” he tried to reason with them, as best as he could, in their language. He was much too weak to fight back. “I’ve done nothing to you!”_

_Another well placed slap rocketed his head to the side. “We asked you a question, Elf!”_

_More blood._

_“Is there anyone with you?”_

_Cal licked the sticky blood from his swollen lip. “No,” he whispered, a familiar terror squeezing his chest once more, like a vice._

_The men laughed._

Mablung watched as Calithildir wound himself more tightly in the blanket, pulling it taut across his thin shoulders. “Are you almost done? I’m so tired Mablung,” he plead softly, voice hoarse.

“Nearly, I promise. How then did you return?” 

Cal cleared his throat, though it didn’t seem to help. “One day, I was taken to the edges of Doriath. My chains were released, and I was thrown from the horse, and then I was told to run, and not look back lest they put their arrows in me. So I ran. I found Beleg’s tree after a time…you know which one. He saw me. He saved me.”

Melian’s Girdle rejected you, Mablung wanted to remind him. Whether Cal would recognize it or not, his life was not wholly his. Not anymore.

Mablung was not given any more time to ponder this, before Túrin strode into the room, sword at his side. His expression was deadly serious, as only Túrin’s could be. “Mablung, are we ready? What about that Elf magic?”

The quickness of Túrin’s stride and the pointedness of his voice seemed to cause Cal to shrink into the blankets. Ah, but Túrin was human, after all, no matter how much he looked like an Elf, Mablung reminded himself. The boy was getting tall, too.

Túrin paused at the site of the fragile blonde Elf, who was looking at him with large eyes that were fixed on his face, gauging his expressions. His eyes slowly went to Túrin’s hands, watching every movement they made. Noticing this, Túrin raised them slowly, palms outward to indicate that he meant no harm.

Mablung rose slowly, putting himself between Cal’s vision and Túrin. “Túrin, let us continue this conversation outside,” he advised quietly, calmly, nodded towards the door.

00000

If it was one thing that Beleg had always been able to count on, it was that orcs were not quiet. Their war drums were loud. Their shrieks were loud. There no such thing as a sneaky orc.

Sitting as near the to the earth as he was, he could hear the pounding of iron shod boots beating the earth in large enough numbers to warrant some anxiety. He was also certain that the surrounding humans had no idea, although perhaps they were unconcerned.

This was foolish, for orcs fought among themselves all the time. Killing humans -on their side or not, was their idea of a party.

However, if these humans were expecting these orcs, he had a feeling that meant worse news for himself. They probably intended to hand him over to their questionable care for whatever amount of gold and gems he was worth these days. Beleg repressed a shudder as he thought of himself in their clutches. Surely Morgoth only desired him alive, not whole. If it was one thing orcs loved, it was making Elves suffer.

Reniedir knew of the approaching orcs, Beleg was certain. He was looking more nervous than usual, and his eyes kept checking the horizon to the North.

He was sure that the humans had sent a raven to Reniedir’s parents that morning. However, they had continued to move. Beleg had secretly hoped that they would delay their travel, making it easier for Mablung to catch up to them.

As usual they were tossed on the ground together, and their legs trussed. Tonight, the men did not deign to feed them, but neither of them cared. Beleg was wearier than he would like to admit, more spiritually, than physically. He craved rest, but it was not possible.

“Beleg,” Reniedir risked a whisper when they had a moment, “There are orcs.”

“I know,” Beleg cocked his head to the side, listening again. He drew a deep breath through his nostrils. He silently cursed, able to scent the stinking creatures on the air. They were perilously close.

“Do you think they’re here for you?”

“Likely,” Beleg grumbled quietly, not exactly wanting to talk about it.

Reniedir became quiet. Beleg wondered if he felt any remorse. It was one thing to betray someone, it was another to see the direct consequences. Although, if the orcs slaughtered these men, they would be more than happy to take Reniedir as well, and he was not a present to any lord. His fate would be death, after being slowly taken apart. Orcs didn’t have use for gold.

“We have to escape,” Beleg said, more to himself, but nevertheless loud enough for Reniedir to hear.

Reneidir’s eyes were scanning the environment, the men. “Yes,” he agreed quietly. “I’m open to ideas.”

Beleg attempted to flex his fingers, but they were numb, nearly unbearably so. Even were his bonds to be severed, it would be minutes, if not longer, before he could hold a weapon again. Fleeing was their safest, if not their only, option. He hated it. 

“I haven’t any so far,” Beleg muttered sourly. However, he had never been one to give up, and he didn’t plan on starting now. His natural instincts to fight ran deep and was going to find a way. 

A commotion in the camp caught the Elves’ attention. 

“You care more for gold, than for vengeance for your own kind!” Beleg heard Serthich’s deep voice booming. He did not need Elven hearing to understand what was being hollered, even at a distance. “Have you heard anything from that blighter’s father? No! Of course not. We ought to take and skin them both!”

Beleg felt Reniedir go tense beside him and resisted the urge to glance at him. Beleg wouldn’t go so far as to say Serthich was a rousing speaker, but he was plucking on the nerves -and more importantly the pride, of each man in the camp. His words were finding their mark. Murmurs and nods of approval were exchanged between the men.

Serthich continued, gaining momentum. “You let us get thrown out of our home, like curs! I have followed you, and what has it cost me? My lands, my brother! Now, you would have us deliver this Elf, Beleg into the hands of orcs, for what…gold? Gold will not bring us home!”

On the one hand, Beleg did _not_ want to find himself in the hands of Morgoth or Gorthuar, or even his orcs. None of these beings could be reasoned with, and all had very good reason to hate him. However, on the other hand, divided enemies were much easier to manage.

“You forget your place!” Bölwög growled, drawing his sword. In all honesty, Beleg was impressed that he had not murdered Serthich long ago.

“No,” Serthich snarled, “you forget yours! Give me that dark-haired Elf, that I may avenge my brother and the blood of our people! That is our law!”

“Beleg!” Reniedir’s whisper was earnest. “When the time comes, just let me go.”

“No,” Beleg shook his head. “Cal has lost enough. He needs you. I can help you.” Perhaps it was the trauma of their situation (which Renieidir had created, mind you) but he was also growing fond of the other Elf. Or maybe not exactly fond, but his emotions extended beyond tolerance.

“I’m going to die regardless. I will not make it home,” Reniedir said with an unsettling amount of finality. “You can’t help me anymore, Beleg, though I greatly appreciate that you tried.” The dark-haired Elf’s mouth was turned down in a tumultuous frown. “I deserve to die. What I have done should see me dead.”

Unfortunately, that was one of the truest statements Beleg had heard in recent memory. Reniedir would probably be tried for treason when they returned, regardless. Although Beleg seriously doubted Thingol would execute another Elf, especially a Sinda, exile was not out of the question. “You will not die,” he insisted, mostly because he was not sure of what else to say.

Reniedir just sighed quietly. “I wonder if my father received that message. Surely, he…no, he would not leave me to this.”

“Why do you doubt him?” Beleg asked after a moment, studying the younger Elf. Having never had a family of his own, he often found family dynamics to be slightly puzzling.

“He did not approve of my choice to join the marchwardens. He said I was not considering my mother. We have not spoken as of late.”

It was slowly becoming apparent to Beleg who the favorite son had been. Calithildir, second born, had been the apple of his father’s eye, and his mother’s beating heart. Somehow it had not spoiled him to have been so doted on. If nothing else, it was possibly partially responsible for his compassionate nature.

Reniedir shrugged, although Beleg wasn’t the least bit fooled by his nonchalance. “At least if I die, Cal doesn’t have to know what I have done. You will not tell him.”

“I will not,” Beleg said slowly. Continuing to tell Renieidr that he would make it out of this affair alive seemed to suddenly have a hollow ring to it.

Reniedir shook his head, then fixed Beleg with an intense stare. “I know you owe me nothing, but I beg of you, he can’t know.”

“What makes you think that I will survive?” Beleg asked, almost scoffing at the thought. He certainly had every intention to live. However, the odds were not looking overwhelmingly optimistic. Not at all.

“Please. Are you the Beleg Strongbow of legend, or aren’t you?” Reniedir asked.

Beleg didn’t answer, frowning into the dark.

“For what it is worth, my Captain, I deeply regret my actions.” Had Beleg been any being other than an Elf, he would have likely missed the murmured apology. Then Reniedir spoke up, “what do you think happens after…” Reniedir couldn’t finish.

Beleg sighed, pursing his lips slightly in thought. Reniedir was scared, and rightfully so. He also was not much older than Calithildir. Maybe three hundred years were between them, if Beleg had to guess. “I cannot say. I don’t think it’s painful afterwards. I imagine it would be like going home, like being understood completely.” 

Death was not something Elves thought about or should have to think about. Although, Beleg had to admit, he’d probably given it a bit more thought than most, given his position.

Reniedir was quiet, contemplative. Beleg’s heart ached to look at him. He felt as though he was seeing the real Reniedir for the first time. No longer the proud, sullen, treacherous Elf that had recklessly pulled them into this mess, but the young, vulnerable Elf. The Elf that had loved his brother with all his heart, when he could have been bitterly jealous. The Elf that had watched his family disintegrate after Calithildir was lost.

The men were still rumbling, arguing amongst themselves.

Bölwög eventually conceded to Serthich’s request -with persuasion of course, that Reniedir be given up. It was the easiest way to appease the upheaval in his coterie of men. When Serthich advanced towards the Elves, Beleg was not sure what to do. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. A feeling of cold, clenching helplessness settled in the very pit of his stomach.

Reniedir sat as tall as possible, blue eyes cold, and resolute. Beleg found himself feeling proud of the younger Elf, who he knew had to be beyond terrified.

Two men grasped Reniedir under his arms, pulling him to his feet. The Elf’s face faltered for a moment, only, before he recollected himself. The humans were excited, Beleg could feel it in how they jostled each other, and hear it in their heartbeats and quickened breaths. He could feel it in their laughter and barbed words.

Beleg was aware of the men to his back, as a stinking cloth was thrust between his teeth, and bound brutally tight behind his head. The crude gag pinched the corners of his mouth and tangled painfully in his hair. Serthich smirked as Beleg snarled around the cloth. “No words, this time. No spells. No tricks.” 

oooooo

By the end of the night Beleg’s throat hurt from his effort to attempt to scream around the gag in his mouth. He was all too familiar with cruelty in many forms, but this was something new. He had interacted with men many a time, but until now had never truly witnessed their capacity for evil. 

A part of him had refused to believe how corruptible Men were.

In his mind he saw Túrin, young and kind, a sweet child. He must never grow up to be cruel. Never. Beleg would _never_ let this happen.

But Túrin had always been different, and perhaps the houses of the Edain were truly stronger than this.

Any anger, insecurity, pain, confusion…any negative emotions at all, Serthich had taken them out on Reniedir, delighted by the young Elf’s strangled screams. It had taken some creativity, but in the end, he had forced Reniedir to beg, and then he slipped a knife between his ribs. Reniedir had suffocated as his lung collapsed and blood filled his airways.

His glassy blue eyes had connected with Beleg’s as they slowly started to fade. The pupils were constricted with the initial terror of suffocation, but then Beleg could see that he was trying to say farewell. 

Now he lay on the ground, unmoving, broken. At least he was safe and would hurt no longer, Beleg thought, closing his eyes against the site and turning his face. Bölwög twisted a hand in his silver tresses, forcing his gaze to linger on the bloodied body of Reniedir. “Get a good look, Elf. This is what each of you deserve.”

Beleg’s eyes remained closed. He felt numb, nauseated and at the same time enraged. Seeing Reniedir’s lifeless body had drudged up memories long suppressed, of battle and so many Elves lost. Of bloodied faces on the bloodied, maroon ground.

Bölwög untied the gag, pulling it from Beleg’s dry mouth. Thick strings of saliva stuck to his chin. Beleg reflexively opened and closed his sore jaw, glowering at the man. Bölwög stared at him expectantly.

“Expect me to say thank you?” Beleg rasped indignantly, stopping himself from licking at the aching corners of his mouth. The hoarseness of his own voice was startling.

“I just wanted to see if you had any last words before you belong to the orcs.”

Beleg steeled his jaw, ignoring the ache. Tilting his head away in an obvious snub, the marchwarden held his tongue. They wanted him to beg, which was something he simply just would not do.

Focusing on the distance, he was able to hear the pounding of orc feet on the earth, and the beating of their drums. Their scent stung his nose, and he crinkled it slightly in disgust.

00000

Beleg had not even had time to process Reniedir’s cold blooded murder when he was dragged half off the ground by his bound wrists and pulled across the grass to a cluster of impatient orcs. Their yellow fangs were revealed in gleeful smiles, and Beleg found himself more unnerved by that then he would like to admit. 

“Beleg Strongbow, as promised,” Bölwög announced, throwing him none too gently at their feet.

Beleg strongly considered sitting up and spitting at the creatures, but then decided it would only make things worse, if that were possible. However, he couldn’t deny himself a small show of defiance. He abhorred being treated like a sack of flour, a good to be peddled. Beleg longed to remind these orcs exactly what Elf they were dealing with.

Lashing out with his bound feet, he caught the orc captain in the knees, causing them to stumble back with a curse. Mablung would not approve of this, he noted dryly, before a hobnailed boot connected with his ribs, flipping him onto his back.

Spitting at them may have been a better idea, after all.

“You’ll keep your feet to yourself, Strongbow, or we’ll break ‘em!” The orc captain threatened. “You’re only required alive!” 

‘Alive’ was an alarmingly very vague term. 

Beleg found himself smiling, although it was truly more of a snarl.

“Eh’s a feisty one, eh, Bölwög?” The orc sneered at Bölwög, yellow eyes roving over Beleg’s supine form. Beleg didn’t _look_ particularly strong. He was deceptively lithe. However, orcs knew the tales well enough to be wary.

“Release my bonds, and you’ll see how ‘feisty’ I can be,” the moonlit-haired Elf promised through barred white teeth.

“Go on, Elf, get your threats in before you end up at _his_ throne, and you suddenly lose your tongue!” A clawed paw reached down and grasped Beleg by the front of his jerkin, yanking him off the ground. Yellow eyes met silver ones.

Finally deciding he did not have much to lose at this point, Beleg spat in the orc’s face. “I am not afraid of you. I have known many a creature, older and darker than you. They bled, they died. Don’t flatter yourself by trying these intimidation tactics with me, spawn of Morgoth.” 

The orc laughed, or more accurately, cackled. “Doesn’t know how to talk to his betters! Teach him!”

He threw Beleg back to the earth with a startling amount of strength, and in that moment of vulnerability he found himself set upon by numbers of boots. The Elf did his best to curl into himself, but it did very little to protect him, so many were the feet. He wheezed and clenched his jaw stubbornly as he felt a crack in his chest that he knew was a rib. Sharp. The pain was sharp.

He’d had worse.

Hands were on him, dragging him up once more. His bonds were being cut, he realized, and he attempted to seize the opportunity when a paw clutched his throat. His breath caught. He squirmed wildly, unable to escape the grip.

Ice clamped around his wrists and as they were released, he realized that his bonds had been replaced with heavy shackles, designed to weigh their captive down miserably. The hand around his throat loosened its grip and cold metal encircled his neck, biting, the chain linked to his hands. His legs endured the same treatment, with just enough chain to make running at the drive of a whip possible.

He felt impossibly heavy. Taking a moment to glance at the shackles binding his wrists, he resisted the urge to look surprised. They were inscribed in black speech, and he was certain that the manacles were not only heavy, but that his strength was being sapped, slowly. His heavy heart was not helping matters, either.

This had been planned entirely too well on the part of the uruks, who looked all too pleased. They were like cats -ugly cats, that had gotten the cream. “Run-away now, my pretty!” The captain crooned, clutching Beleg’s chin in his claws, and forcing those steely eyes to meet his.

If the orc was unnerved by Beleg’s gaze, he did not show it. Which added to Beleg’s frustration, though he’d never admit it aloud. Almost too fast for eyes to follow, he sank his teeth deep into the Uruk’s paw, black blood stained his teeth as he pulled back with a defiant growl. Beleg spat black, resisting the urge to retch as his Elven body rejected the orcish blood.

The creature howled in pain, and in a rage, sliced his claws across Beleg’s face and jaw. Red blood spurted to the surface of his perfect skin.

Orc nostrils flared, smelling the sweet blood in the air. The captain ran his finger through it, bringing it to his thin lips, and licked it slowly, deliberately, as though he was tasting a delicacy. “So sweet.”

Blood ran down Beleg’s chin and neck, and he wiped his scratched cheek on his shoulder, panting in his anger and tasting his own blood.

“Where is our payment?” Bölwög’s voice cut through the brawl.

The orc captain chuckled, and the others looked at one another. The commanding orc drew his weapon, with a wicked leer. “Who said anything about payment?”

And with that the orcs, turned on the men. Several screams later, and that was the last anyone would ever see of Bölwög or his group of renegade Easterlings.

Perhaps it was best, that Reniedir was dead.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Beleg took a moment to think of his next movement. He had to leave a sign for Mablung that he was still alive, that he had not been killed like Reniedir. Eying the buttons on his sleeves, which tapered elegantly down his arms, he carefully grabbed one in his teeth. The button came loose with a gentle tug. Spitting it onto the ground, Beleg moved himself over it, concealing it from view. Although, he doubted the vision of orcs was sharp enough to notice it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC....  
> Please drop a review and let me know your thoughts!
> 
> Hopefully this next chapter is a little more on schedule.


	4. What Nightmares Are Made Of

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! So here is chapter 4! This fic is continuing down a dark road, for now. Warnings for character torment and death continue. Heed them.

**Chapter 4: What Nightmares Are Made Of**

_ "With their whips of flame they smote asunder the webs of  _ _Ungoliant , and she quailed, and turned to fight, belching black vapours to cover her; and fleeing from the north she went down into Beleriand, and dwelt beneath Ered Gorgoroth, in that dark valley that was after called Nan Dungortheb, the Valley of Dreadful Death, because of the horror she bred there. For other foul creatures of spider form had dwelt there since the days of the delving of Angband, and she mated with them, and devoured them; and even after Ungoliant herself departed, and went whither she would into the forgotten south of the world, her offspring abode there and wove their hideous webs. Of the fate of Ungoliant, no tale tells. Yet some have said that she ended long ago, when in her uttermost famine she devoured herself at last." – **The Silmarillion**_

Túrin had never fancied he would like to see himself as an Elf, or fancy being an Elf. They were beautiful, true. However, they were also spoiled and prone to snobbish behavior, in his opinion. However, despite all of this, he still longed to catch a glimpse of himself in a reflecting pool. How should he look with pointed ears? Mablung had insisted the magic would not allow him to see himself as others saw him. 

“You’d like yourself, if you could see yourself,” Mablung maintained with some agitation. He hardly felt he had the required patience for dealing with a child, let alone one as irritatingly stubborn as Túrin.

“You best not have made me blonde,” Túrin muttered under his breath.

The old Elf rolled his eyes emphatically, snorting softly. “Don’t tempt me,” he mumbled back, shaking his head. They had been on the road for the better part of the day and night and were riding into the morning. The horses were not tired, Elven as they were. The rescue party intended to press on. There was no time to rest, as every hour put Beleg and Reniedir farther away.

Mablung glanced at Túrin from the corner of his eye. He looked like a young Elf of a few centuries old, with long dark hair, and striking blue eyes. Mablung had opted to work with a lot of Túrin’s naturally beautiful, albeit a bit boyish, features to manipulate him into the vision of a Sindarin Elf. Although, with the dark hair he could pass for a Noldo.

Túrin was obsessing, Mablung could tell from the way the corners of his mouth pulled down into a frown and his lips were pressed thin. “Mablung,” he queried after a moment, slowly, cautiously. “Do you think…do you think Beleg is in pain? That they’ve hurt him?”

His voice cracked, and he was younger again, a scared child, for just a moment.

Mablung chewed on the inside of his cheek. He had been asking himself this question since his friend had gone missing, and he dreaded a truthful answer. The condition of young Calithildir promised little mercy to an Elf that fell into the wrong hands. However, Beleg was a strong, robust type of Elf with a knack for survival. This was hardly the first time Beleg had come precariously close to speaking with Mandos.

Looking at the reins of his horse, Mablung found himself hesitant to answer, to speak the truth of the matter. “He probably has been better.” There was no way he had been taken down, let alone contained, without taking some hurt. However, Mablung could not bring himself to say it.

Túrin bristled; hands clenched around his horse’s reins. “I will kill them, Mablung. I will kill them all.” His voice was still cracked.

“You will leave that to me, and my contingent,” Mablung ordered sharply, shaking his head. “You are far too inexperienced, and should I let anything happen to you Beleg will surely murder me. As would The King and Queen… especially the Queen. I have made a great allowance in bringing you thus far.”

“You know I would have come regardless,” Túrin pointed out stubbornly. “’Tis easier for you to keep me in sight. This is not a favor. You knew that you could not prevent me.”

Mablung stole a glance at the boy, and even in his Elven disguise he looked slightly smug. “Did Beleg teach you to speak so to your elders?”

“Nay,” now it was Túrin’s turn to shake his head. “He would never.”

Mablung was inclined to disagree. While Beleg understood the concept of proper behavior, particularly in a court or otherwise formal setting, he was born of the wild. Mablung did not see Beleg taming the wild in another. “You will not fight.” 

Túrin didn’t roll his eyes, he wouldn’t dare, realizing that Mablung was not in a particularly forgiving mood. Good, the Elf thought, redirecting his attention to the trail ahead.

00000

It was with relief that Beleg finally collapsed on the ground, soaked in his own sweat, his silver hair clinging to his neck and face. His rough iron shackles had chaffed his wrists and neck raw. His mouth was gritty with dust kicked up by the orcs’ boots as they maintained a brutal pace towards Angband. Beleg’s back and shoulders stung in places where he had been unable to escape the bite of a whip.

He had kept pace with the orcs, but they struck him regardless.

Ordinarily this type of endurance would be no trouble for an ancient, strong Elf warrior. However, Beleg’s spirit was heavy with fresh grief, he had been given no food or water in days, and the shackles were as good as poisonous. They were awkward, and heavy. No Elf clothed themselves in iron, let alone iron cursed in Angband. The collar of iron around his neck was particularly troublesome and at times he felt as though it was difficult to draw breath, though perhaps it was. His broken ribs screamed with each fill of his lungs and each jostling shove from an orc should he step too close.

To his dismay, Beleg noticed the tremor in his hands, and clenched them to hide it from his captors. He couldn’t tell if it was from suppressed pain, exhaustion, adrenaline, dehydration, or some happy mix of all these things. Perhaps he even felt fear, if he was entirely honest with himself. He winced as he forced himself onto his knees. Although a part of him wanted to just lay on the soft dewy grass and rest. It felt cool against his heated skin, and he imagined the dew would taste good on his parched tongue.

However, he wasn’t so thirsty that he’d lick the grass at the orcs’ feet. He’d rather die first. 

Dawn was on the horizon. The orcs could not maintain travel by sunlight. While it was not lethal for them, it greatly slowed them down, and they much preferred to avoid it. They had found a spot among some crooked looking trees. They were nearing the edge of Ered Gorgoroth.

These were _not_ the mountains Beleg would have chosen to make a campsite near, personally. There were worse creatures than orcs in these dark ravines, and forests. Hm, perhaps if he was _really_ lucky, a giant spider with an insatiable appetite for orc would happen by….

Laughter cackled above him, and he cracked open an eye, cursing himself for having closed them. The orcs were above him now, and the large orc captain was sniggering, probably to see Beleg so exhausted, kneeling on the ground.

“Not so mighty, now, eh Strongbow?” The orc sneered, reaching down to grasp the chain the joined Beleg’s wrists and neck.

Beleg twisted his face into a bitter glare. The scratches on his cheek stung at the manipulation.

He found himself being pulled to his feet, as though on a leash -which he supposed he really was on a leash. His tired, sore muscles screamed as he was forced to rise. Two more orcs grabbed his upper arms and helped to force him back against one of the trees. Rough bark scratched through what was left of his thin tunic and scraped against his whip weals. He squirmed in a pathetic attempt to free himself from the paws on his arms, but all this earned him was a strong cuff to the head, bouncing the back of his skull off the tree trunk. Yellow and black spots danced in his vision, and he struggled to blink them away. In that moment, he found himself completely subdued.

His arms were stretched above his head and the chain wrapped around a branch. It was just far enough off the ground that his toes struggled to keep his weight off his wrists. Thankfully, the iron collar around his neck was not dangerously tight.

“There we go. Can’t have ya runnin’ off before the fun starts!” Scoffed the orc captain. His yellow eyes roved over the Elf cruelly.“Do you know what we do to little Elves?” His discolored fangs gnashed in a feral grin.

Beleg rolled his eyes and met the yellow gaze steadily. Unfortunately, the Elf was finding his voice to be too hoarse and raspy to be able to speak properly. His tongue was too dry and cleaved to the roof of his mouth. 

“We make ‘em scream,” the orc cackled, and the surrounding creatures guffawed. Reaching up, the captain, stroked Beleg’s face in a mock caress. Beleg turned his face away in disgust, with a small huff.

He was older, wiser, and stronger than these despicable beings of Morgoth. He was older than the damned sun that was shining on them now. However, he couldn’t help the feeling of helplessness and the cold prickle of fear that pinched his stomach.

“Sometimes,” said a smaller, uglier, scruffy, orc, “we burnt their flesh till it fell off their bones.” He looked none too slyly over to where some of the others were starting to make a small fire. It was the heat of summer. Beleg held no illusions as to what that fire was for. Orcs didn’t cook their food.

Spiders did not like fire, so the orcs were not wholly unvigilant, quite a shame.

He couldn’t help but test his chains with a small tug, despite the fact he knew it was in vain. He was not going anywhere. His fingertips were tingling with poor circulation.

“Aw, now look, Lerzo, yer scaring the wee Elf,” The orc captain chuckled, his clawed fingers starting to tear apart the buttons on Beleg’s tunic, to reveal the smooth skin of his chest. For being a warrior, Beleg had surprisingly few scars. The orc curled his claws and raked them across the pale skin, creating angry red scrapes in their wake. Blood welled to the surface.

Beleg didn’t flinch.

“Scum should be scared,” Lerzo barked. Orcs and goblins were now encircling the tree Beleg was held too. 

At this, Beleg scowled, forcing his tired, steel grey eyes to focus.

“We also carved ‘em up… skinned ‘em like rabbits!” The orc captain continued his taunting.

“Broke their bones!” a smaller goblin snarled. “Startin’ with their fingers. Don’t need ‘em, do you archer?”

“How long can an Elf go without air, you reckon?” another piped up.

“Oshnit, Master wants ‘em alive!”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t have our fun first!”

“He didn’t seem to enjoy the whip!” a burlier orc came forward, taking his whip from his belt. He had made sure to beat Beleg at any opportunity and had taken great enjoyment in making sure each strike cut through his clothing.

Beleg found himself fading out of consciousness, remembering happier times and losing track of their taunting. He could feel his pulse fluttering in his chest, as likely dehydration related as it was discomfort. His broken ribs were screaming, stretched as they were. He’d broken ribs before. The pain was manageable, or so he told himself.

He was torn from his musings as fire ripped across his bare abdomen. The whip had been brought down harshly, and he barely had time to register this, before another strike lashed against his flesh, opening skin. The pain knocked the wind from his lungs, and for a second he couldn’t breathe.

He knew he had not uttered a sound, but he must have made a face, because the surrounding orcs chattered amongst themselves in excitement.

They were laughing at him.

Since when did orcs laugh at _him_?

To take his mind off the lashing, he let his thoughts continue to wander. He couldn’t help but think of Mablung, his dearest friend and the only real family that he had ever had. He would give anything to see one of his dramatic eye rolls, or disapproving scowls one more time. Beleg even found himself missing the lecturing of the other Elf’s voice. He also found his thoughts wondering to Túrin, that sullen child that he couldn’t help but love.

The whip struck across an already open bit of skin, jerking him back to the present.

Beleg hissed; a sharp intake of breath. Bright red blood splattered against his white skin, and the remnants of his tunic. And before he could recover properly, another strike followed.

He bit his lower lip, which had gone pale from pain and exhaustion, and tasted his own blood. He was not going to whimper; he was not going to give them the satisfaction. As a matter of fact…. “Is this all that Gorthaur’s slaves can do?” he rasped around his tight, dry throat.“Beat me?” 

“We’re just barely gettin’ started, Strongbow,” the orc captain chuckled, fishing a heated knife from the coals of their little fire. 

00000

At the head of the contingent, Mablung gently reigned in his chestnut mare, scowling at the churned grass and dirt. A scuffle had taken place here. There was blood, also. Though human or Elf, it was hard to tell. 

His scowl darkened. 

Suddenly Túrin had thrown himself from his hose, rapidly dismounting. “Whose blood is this?” He shouted, to no one, and yet to everyone. 

“Get back on your horse!” Mablung hissed, head bowed in thought. “You’ll trample the ground!”

Túrin was of no mind to listen and ran forward to a figure laying in the grass.

The boy hesitated, hand hovering over the body for a second before his shaking hand covered his mouth, and turning, he puked violently into the grass.

The white, cold body of an Elf stared blankly past the sky, black pupils relaxed in death and flooding blue irises. Dark hair, sticky with blood, clung to his face and fanned out into the surrounding grass. Dried blood stained the Elf’s teeth. Dark maroon, dry rivers ran from the corners of his mouth. His death had very clearly been drawn out, and painful.

He had been dead for a couple of days, at least.

It wasn’t Beleg.

Túrin wretched again.

Mablung knew he would never forget it, the way Túrin looked over his shoulder at him. His eyes were glassy with tears, and he looked like a devastated young Elf, guised by the magic but with his boyish naivety breaking through in his eyes. They connected with Mablung’s and the Elf found himself hard pressed not to look away. He had thought the young human to be unfortunately very familiar with death, but perhaps he had been wrong. It would have made sense for the Lady Morwen, and the household servants that loved Túrin dear to shield him.

Mablung could feel his men looking at him, and he straightened his back, smoothly dismounting and raising a hand to keep them on their mounts.

Going to Túrin, mindful of his steps, Mablung crouched by his side. “That’s Reniedir. He is Calithildir’s older brother,” he whispered quietly. Mablung drew a deep breath. Cal was going to be utterly heart broken, likely inconsolable. The one person who loved him unconditionally was gone. Reniedir had never been a favorite Elf of Mablung’s and he often told Beleg he felt that the other was too damaged to be a marchwarden and should be assigned to other duties. He had felt Reniedir spent too much time alone with his anger and bitterness. Beleg had always refused this, saying he thought the other would find healing in the woods.

He would find healing now, Mablung thought sadly. Reniedir had been free of his body too long, and so unable to close his eyes, Mablung pulled a cloth from his belt and laid it over them.

“We have to keep moving,” Túrin murmured, eyes tracing the wounds on Reniedir’s body. He was shirtless, numerous cuts and abrasions and bruises stood out against bloodless skin. His hands were still bound with cord, which Mablung quietly cut with a hunting knife, slipping the material from his wrists. He sent a silent prayer to Mandos, though he had found himself praying less and less these days. And yet the few prayers he found himself whispering were more fervent.

“We need to read this ground further,” Mablung replied. If Beleg was alive, he would have left a sign. He had to know that Mablung would be searching for him by now.

Orcs had been here.

Elven eyes scanning the area, he spotted more bodies lying ahead. His throat tightened painfully. He and Beleg both knew they were likely to die bloody, but Mablung had truly hoped it would have been him to go first.

Elves were not supposed to die, though he had seen many do so. Each had left him feeling bereft, sad. However, this was different. Beleg would always be different.

Looking to Túrin he fixed the boy with a commanding gaze. “Wait here.”

For once the child didn’t argue.

Mablung was afraid to look at the dead as well. His legs felt like lead, as he put one foot before the other, at first slowly, then faster.

He was running.

Approaching the bodies, he was relieved to find that these were men, likely the same men that had taken Beleg and Reniedir in the first place. Easterlings. They had found themselves on the wrong side of orc scimitars. Good riddance, Mablung found himself thinking in disgust. His main regret was that he had not been the one to run them through.

He would have enjoyed that far too much.

Then he saw it, glistening in the grass. A silver button, from an Elven tunic. His heart hammered in his chest. Beleg was alive. That stubborn, foolish, valiant, pain in the neck, was alive.

And he was at the mercy of orcs.

00000

Calithildir was wrapped into a tight ball beneath the furs and blankets. His arms were wrapped around his knees, which touched his chest. His eyes were dry. He had ceased crying a night ago. An overwhelming numbness finally washed over him, and the pain in his heart retreated for the time being.

He did not know how he knew, or what had transpired, but he knew his brother was gone. Reniedir was beyond Beleriand now. He had felt Reniedir’s soul depart.

Heavy with sorrow, Calithildir wanted nothing more than to give up his own spirit and join his brother on the other side. However, the markings on his back burned faintly, and he knew death would not take him. He was doomed to be Gorthaur’s slave for all eternity, it seemed. Freedom was an illusion.

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know your thoughts! 
> 
> My next post should be out before Christmas :)


	5. Chapter Five: No Turning Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! There is a blatant reference to rape in this chapter. I just want to abundantly clear about this. It is not graphic, more alluded to, although the after math is definitely dark.

Beleg was no longer certain of time. Passing out from dehydration and pain had left significant gaps in his memory. His eyes felt like sandpaper, and he struggled to blink them open enough to take in his surroundings.

Awareness was something that he instantly regretted. His head throbbed, and his mouth felt so dry. His throat was raw. And these were his minor grievances.

His chest and abdomen hurt greatly. He had been beaten, and that had been horrible, but he could endure it. However, when that nasty orc had pulled a heated knife from their little fire, Beleg thought he’d crack his teeth to keep from screaming.

Razor sharp, short, scorching cuts crossed his chest. They would slice and jeer, laughing as he felt his face lose color. He had not screamed, but squirming was unavoidable, and a quiet whimper may have passed his lips. By the time the evil creatures had started to create a fifth wound by pressing the flat of the scalding blade to the meat of his right pectoral he saw black and then felt nothing. 

Until now.

He was careful to only move his eyes, lest these beasts know he was awake, and the torment started all over again.

They had traveled since he had last been awake, that much was evident. He did not recognize the surrounding trees and their dark whispers. The trees of Taur-Nu-Fuin’s voices were desperate, and shrill in his mind. They did not enjoy the orcs, or the dark webs of spiders, nor any other dark beast yet unknown to Elves.

The air was stifling to his spirit, laden with evil. And it was dark, dark as pitch. If not for his Elven sight, he’d have been unable to see his hand, even before his own face.

Why had the orcs stopped? Traveling in the dark was their delight.

Beleg drew a shallow breath through his nose, just enough to take in the scents of the forest bed beneath him, but not deep enough to make him cough from his rib injuries. The earth smelled stale, damp and in some ways foul, compared to the lovely earthy smells he was used to enjoying.

The trees creaked in misery, or was that the weight of a giant spider above them? Beleg was unsure. He didn’t dare turn his head.

Suddenly something was digging into his back, the toe of an iron orc boot. “Scum is out cold. You give ‘em water, Lerzo?”

“Elves don’t need water, do they?” the other spat, without answering the question.

“Course they do! Weak things.” He gnashed his teeth, and suddenly Beleg felt a paw on his shoulder, turning him onto his back. He closed his eyes. “Gimme that water skin, fool!”

Lerzo complied, tossing it to their captain.

Beleg’s eyes suddenly flung open as a clawed paw grabbed his jaw and worked to force it open. A second orc joined, pinching Beleg’s nose shut. He flailed, lashing out with his feet, and meeting air.

Claws raked down his chest and his mouth forced open with an audible gasp of pain. The flask was instantly between his teeth and water hit his tongue. His body was so thirsty that it reflexively swallowed, despite his misgivings. The water wasn’t as horrible or slimy as he had dreaded, and he assumed they must have collected it from one of the cleaner streams, yet unpolluted.

After a few gulps, he managed to regain some control over his body, and he jerked his face away. Water spilled on his chest, causing the burns to sting.

“Can’t have you dying…Master would be very unpleased.”

If Beleg got his way, their master would be very displeased indeed.

Beleg felt dizzy, and he laid back against the dead leaves. His stomach rolled as he realized that the cold water very much did not agree with him. He needed to keep it down, he knew.

The orcs oddly did not bother with him, leaving him to lay on the ground with guards. They seemed oddly nervous, sniffing the air and growling. And that was when he realized…. They were lost. The dark ways of the forest had confounded the stupid creatures.

Then the whispers of the trees changed.

00000

Cal stared into the looking glass, the first time he had seen himself in a very long time. He did not recognize the thin, ghost of an Elf that stared back at him with large, haunted blue eyes. His cheeks were so hollow, though he supposed they were filling out a bit more now. A scar marred his right cheek. His hair, which had once been long and beautiful curled around his chin, wispy.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to look, but knowing he must. Blue eyes opened again, slowly. His ears were ruined, the delicate points sawed completely off, leaving tattered remains behind.

He flinched, pressing his eyes closed again.

He could still remember everything the day that he had incurred all Bölwög’s wrath.

Calithildir’s throat felt tight and he chewed his lip to hold back his tears. He was so tired of crying. He was two hundred and fifteen years old, for Eru’s sake!

He reached up, long fingers gingerly touching the tops of his ears, running along the scarred edges. Clasping his hands over his ears, the young Elf bowed his head in complete shame, trying to thwart memories he had done everything in his power to suppress. Darkness, impenetrable and hungry, swelled in his chest. He was being devoured alive, and yet he was still here.

_Bölwög’s men had returned to camp with a young human woman in tow. She was incredibly frightened, Calithildir could tell. Her eyes were huge in her pale face. The men had already been rough with her, if her bleeding nose and disheveled hair was any indication. As an Elf, he was a poor judge of human age, but she seemed to be only a few years past human majority._

_Anger churned in his chest, coupled with a lingering fear, as he peered out from Bölwög’s tent, where he had been cleaning the human, his master’s, living space. He had wearied of escape attempts long ago. A length of chain ran between his ankles, and it prevented any quick movements. His wrists endured similar treatment._

_He couldn’t recall the last time he had made the effort to try and run._

_The men dragged the girl towards the tent, then hauled her inside, securing her with her back to the center pole. “Bölwög’s going to have some fun with you….then it’s our turn, pretty thing,” the man purred, running his tongue along her neck._

_Calithildir felt nauseated. He looked away, a flush of humiliation and anger flooding up his pale neck to his pointed ears, and the man laughed. “Oh, you’re going to watch, Elf. Not that you would even know what you’re looking at!”_

_The man wasn’t entirely wrong. Cal had no experience in the ways of lust and flesh. When he had left for the marches he had barely been old enough to start desiring a mate._

_He merely hung his head until the men left the tent. Once they were gone however, he cautiously looked at the woman. Tears were streaming down her face. She was tugging at her bonds, but only insisted on making them tighten._

_He shuffled slowly for the shackles on his ankles and looked at her from the corner of his eyes. He found it difficult to meet her gaze directly and instead found himself focusing on the dirt floor. He swallowed dryly, searching for what to say. “I….I am sorry you are being treated thus, my lady.” He spoke in the Common Tongue, uncertain if she could understand any Sindarin._

_He knew he must look a sight, dressed in a thin tunic and breeches that fit his tall, thin frame ill, with no shoes. She had no reason to trust him. She had no reason to trust anyone._

_The woman was watching him warily between locks of dark hair that had fallen into her bloodied face. “You’re an Elf,” she breathed, unable to hide her astonishment._

_“What is left of one, I’m afraid,” Cal conceded softly, finally raising his head. His blue eyes locked with her grey ones._

_His voice sounded foreign in his own ears. Not many spoke to him, and so he wasn’t accustomed to speaking._

_Yet his voice remained melodious, typical of the Elves._

_Frightened eyes studied him._

_He understood. By this point, he knew well what it was like to trust no one._

_“Please do not be afraid, I am going to help you,” he reassured softly. “No harm will come to you, I swear it.”_

_What was he doing? He could not remember the last time he had said so many words, nor felt so empathetic. He certainly had given up on escape for himself._

_Yet she was helpless, and it burned his heart._

_“You can’t even help yourself,” the woman countered. “I thought Elves were beautiful killers. Quick as lightning. Yet you are in chains.”_

_She had a point. He was trained to be a magnificent killer. A silent protector. Yet here he was._

_Cal looked down at the dirt again, then at his chained hands. He flexed his fingers experimentally, as though truly taking notice of the iron for the first time. It had become such a part of his life; he had almost forgotten it. “I am very tired.”_

_Course laughter drifted in from outside the tent._

_He needed to free her, sooner rather than later._

_His Elven eyes quickly searched the room, and he saw the hilt of a dagger peeking from under Bölwög’s tattered pillow. No rest for thieves and tyrants, Cal reasoned. He shuffled to the bedside, grabbing the dagger in his hands, fingers reflexively curling around it._

_He made short work of her bonds, severing them deftly. The blade felt comforting in his hands._

_She turned on him in surprise. “They’ll kill you for this.”_

_“Just run, please. Run, and don’t look back.” He could not follow her, his movements were far too hampered and the iron was far too awkward to allow him to hide silently._

Cal had let her escape under the tent, and when Bölwög came in to harm her, he found only his Elven slave with a rondel dagger, and a stubborn glint in his eyes. Calithildir had known it would be a losing fight. His movements were far too laden. He had hoped for death, instead he found himself disarmed and thrown violently to the floor. Not before killing two men and severely wounding a third, however.

_Calithildir caught himself on his arms as he was thrown to the earthen floor. He attempted to rise, but a boot slammed into his back, knocking his breath from his lungs and forcing him to grovel in the dirt. By now, their scuffle had caught the attention of more men._

_Grabbing a horse whip from one of the others, Bölwög proceeded to strike Cal across his thin shoulders, slicing through shirt and skin. “You let that bitch go, eh?” He struck again, catching Cal in the cheek, blood sprang forth. Cal increased his efforts to protect his face, attempting to curl in on himself._

_“How dare you?” Bölwög bellowed, lashing Cal several times in rapid succession, wherever he could reach. The young Elf yelped as the whip layered over a previous strike._

_More lashes. Cal bit his lip, tasting the blood from his cheek. The whip had cut deeply into his face._

_“Perhaps you’d like to take her place, eh? Pretty boy?” A hand tangled in his long golden locks, pulling him halfway off the ground. “What do you think boys? Maybe then he’ll remember his place.”_

What happened after that didn’t bear remembering, until the moment Bölwög took the very dagger Cal had cut the human woman free with and mutilated his ears. He then sawed off the tangled gold locks, leaving it unevenly cropped about his bloodied ears, so that everyone could see them.

They had left Calithildir a trembling, naked mess curled up in the dirt.

_Lengths of long, dirty blonde hair were scattered about him._

_Everything hurt. He didn’t dare open his eyes but kept them pressed tightly closed._

He had begged Mandos to take his Fea, during his …rape and after. Once again, the marks on his back had burned, and he had discovered he could not give up his own life.

0000

Mablung stared darkly at the forest ahead. Of course, the orcs had chosen this forest, of all forests, to cut through on their way to Angband. Túrin rode beside him, pulling his horse to a stop and staring calculatingly at the thick, menacing foliage. “Taur-Nu-Fuin,” Mablung explained dryly.

Túrin nodded once. “Beleg has spoken of it. He has said there are spiders the size of an entire home in its shadow.”

“Spiders and all sorts of other unsavory beasts, yes.” Mablung sighed, hoping it didn’t sound as dramatic as it felt. “Was that his version of a bedtime story?”

“Better than others I have heard,” the boy shot back. Thingol was not known as a prolific storyteller, and Melian’s riddles would likely not interest a boy bent on picking up a sword at any given opportunity. It did provide Mablung some amusement to think of his liege lord attempting to tell a bedtime story to a child. He would never imply his king was boring, of course. That would simply be improper, and beneath an Elf of his stature.

Mablung fell silent, he was listening to the whispers of his men. The marchwardens were hardly put off by the dark woods. They were more than ready to catch up to the orcs and retrieve their captain.

“Well turn around then, if you haven’t the stomach for it,” one of them hissed at a soldier, who evidently had some qualms about the dark enchantment of the woods. “You _live_ in an enchanted forest, Eru’s sake!”

Yes, the soldiers were a little less happy about this venture. They were warriors, not rangers and not expert trackers.

Turning his horse around, Mablung leveled the Elves before him with a commanding glare “No one is turning around. Release the horses. They’ll be of no use to us. It’s too dark, the briar is too thick, and the roots are too many.” 

They also did not need to abuse the horses’ trust in them, and torment them with the wicked enchantments and terrors of that forest. They were already shaking and developing a nervous froth on their coats.

Dismounting, Mablung released his horse’s bridal, stuffing it into a saddle bag on the horse’s side. He stroked the bay’s face, scratching its forehead lovingly. The animal nickered softly, nuzzling Mablung’s chest with his velvet nose.

Túrin quickly followed suite, not afraid to go on foot into the dark. If anything, Mablung felt he looked excited, veins already hot with adrenaline.

00000

It must have been after dawn, because the forest seemed marginally lighter, in that Beleg could make out shadows moving in the dark. He still laid on his back, trying to draw as little attention to himself as possible. His tense abused muscles ached from lying in place for so long. 

The orcs had begun to murmur about a new scent on the wind. They could smell nasty Elves.

One of the foul creatures was even dramatic enough to inhale deeply and gag, snarling as he spat in Beleg’s direction.

The trees went uncharacteristically quiet.

Mablung must be near. Dark forests would not scare him. As much as the dark-haired Elf fancied himself a diplomat, he was a warrior through and through.

Beleg smiled quietly. Mablung doubtless did not come alone to his rescue. These orcs would die for their crimes.

An arrow sliced through the air, and an orc collapsed to the ground. Then everything plunged into chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know your thoughts! I'm anticipating 2 additional chapters and an epilogue. 
> 
> The next chapter should be posted before Valentine's Day, and the final chapter and epilogue should be completed before April. 
> 
> Then it's on to the next adventure!


	6. Chapter 6: Blood and Water

Arrows, precise and deadly, rained down on the party of orcs from the trees. One would have thought they wouldn’t have time to screech like stuck hogs, but unfortunately, they screamed and squealed and Beleg’s ears throbbed with their noise. Beleg looked around him, trying to seek cover. It was a losing battle for the orcs, very clearly, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t slit his throat to spite his rescuers.

He needed a weapon.

Looking up in the trees he could catch fleeting glimpses of the marchwardens flitting from branch to branch, sniping orcs as they went.

The sounds of metal on metal rang out as the Elven soldiers met the orcs in hand to hand combat.

Rising to his hands and knees, Beleg suddenly froze. The ground had moved. He was sure of it. Not in a sentient way, mind you, but it gave under his touch.Hm, that was odd.

He heard a familiar battle cry and turned his gaze just in time to see Mablung cleave an orc helm in two with his axe. Heavy Hand indeed.

They locked eyes, and for a moment Beleg could not deny the relief that fluttered into his chest seeing his friend, covered in black orc blood, fighting to his side. A smile split his worn, bruised face.

Mablung grinned, and for a moment the battlefield narrowed down to the space between them.

A large brute of an orc above Beleg collapsed with an arrow through his eye, stumbling in his death throes, crushing his weight onto the moonlit-haired Elf.

The ground beneath them gave way, crumbling.

Beleg scrambled for purchase on the mossy roots, fingers grasping on the slippery edges of this new abyss. The orc body rolled off him, falling into the darkness below. A loud splash followed. His own feet dangled helplessly, unable to find solid ground.

Mablung was screaming, Beleg realized, frantically cutting down any orc that got in his way as he charged towards him. A dark shadow that Beleg could only guess was a large Uruk suddenly slammed into the other Elf, throwing him several feet. 

Suddenly someone intercepted his vision. He did not recognize the Elf before him, with startling blue eyes and long black hair. Although something about his youthfulness was familiar.

A root snapped, and Beleg dropped lower, still desperately clinging to what he could with his chained hands. Eru, he was going to drown! Or break his neck, depending on how deep the water was.

“Beleg, give me your hand!” The black-haired Elf laid on his stomach, stretching his hand towards Beleg’s chained ones. “Hurry!”

Beleg knew that voice, though it had deepened since he had last heard it. “Turin?” Why was this child disguised as an Elf? What magic was this? Perhaps-

“Take my hand!” Turin’s voice plead, stretching his fingertips to brush Beleg’s white knuckles.

Beleg shook his head. “I can’t let go.” He could feel his grip sliding even as he spoke. His arms began to tremble with the exertion of holding his weight. Aside from the cursed chains, and general abuse, he had lost a considerable amount of blood, and his Elven stamina was starting to fail.

“Beleg, please!” Turin’s voice begged. “You can’t fall!”

His voice was cracking, that reedy adolescent voice, shrill with desperation.

Suddenly there was a sharp snap, and Beleg felt himself falling fast. It only took seconds for him to hit the floor of freezing water, with a smack that sent a shock of pain through his system and forced all his air from his lungs. He arched his back in agony as he sank into the dark, mouth open in a silent scream, unable to inhale. Pushing off a rock beneath the surface, he managed to re-emerge, barking out a gasp. 

The water felt of ice. In the summer.

Floundering in the dark of the abyss, Beleg managed to grasp onto a rough bit of stone, but the current surged against him. Water sloshed over his face, no matter how much he fought to keep his mouth or nose free. His fingers felt numb on the rock’s surface, but he was sure that the jagged stone was cutting his palms. The chains were like heavy ice, weighing against him.

He shivered, fine tremors sapping his strength. He imagined drowning was not the worst death he could have, and should hypothermia set in first it would be much like sleeping. He would simply wake up in the Halls of Waiting. That didn’t sound so awful. In comparison to the pins and needles jabbing his feet and legs, it seemed rather tempting.

He looked up towards the opening he had fallen through. It wasn’t so far. He could see Turin searching the edge for a way down, too stubborn to give up. “Don’t!” Beleg forced the air from his lungs in a desperate shout. “Don’t you dare!” 

The shout stole his strength and he sagged into the water. 

There was something strange about this water, Beleg noticed detachedly, watching the dark little waves lap around his hands. He was fighting hypothermia, sure, but he felt like he was seeing things. Shadows moving.

Stars! The water was enchanted.

He heard a cry of anger and surprise from above and blinked sluggishly, forcing himself to focus. His lips trembled and he set his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. 

Mablung appeared, peering over the edge of the pit with a look of horror on his face that pained Beleg to see. He was saying something, Beleg realized, but he couldn’t hear him or make out any words. Was he screaming? His mouth was opening and closing, but it made no sense.

All Beleg could hear, even with Elven hearing, was the rush of the water. Everything felt so far away.

Turin was by Mablung’s side, pointing to Beleg. 

An orc appeared behind his friends, and Beleg opened his mouth to scream but no words came out. The orc suddenly started to turn, and twist, and more arms came from his sides. A spider. This was not an orc. This was a giant spider.

No, this was not real…certainly, could not be. And yet…the terror clutching his chest was real.

He felt his grip on the rock’s surface slipping. He forced himself to keep his head above the water, the current wasn’t even that strong, but he was so tired. He could sleep right here. It would be so easy. He would be beyond responsibility or heartbreak. 

His head went below the water again, and this time he didn’t fight it. Pale, silvery hair swirling around his face and on the surface above him. 

Then darkness. 

Beleg came-to in a rush, water pouring from his mouth as he wretched onto the stones and pebbles below him. Someone was rolling him onto his side, and he coughed, bringing up more water. He couldn’t catch his breath and collapsed onto his stomach, trembling as adrenaline surged through his veins, which felt like ice.

This was much more miserable than he had ever imagined the Halls of Waiting to be.

“Beleg! There you go, bring it up!” A hand percussed his back, and Beleg found himself belching up more water.

“Mablung,” he growled between ground teeth, “My ribs!”

Each hit sent a shock of pain through out his chest.

He couldn’t see the other Elf, but he could hear his voice clearly. “Your lips were blue, you old fool!” Only Mablung could be furious with him for nearly dying. “After all of the trouble we went to, to find you, and you have the audacity to drown!”

“Sorry?” Beleg offered weakly, letting his cheek rest on the rocks and mud. He went to swipe at the mud around his eyes and realized his hands were still shackled together, though they truly did not feel attached to his body. He supposed one couldn’t have everything all at once. It certainly explained the drowning.

He lied still, and grey eyes sliding shut despite the gritty feeling.

Mablung _hmphed_ at this, shaking his head. Noticing the mud on Beleg’s eyelids, he set to wiping it away with his thumb, much more tenderly than his earlier words would have one believe. “Just lie still for a minute. Try not to do anything else stupid,” he chided softly. Beleg smiled feebly into the scolding.

Suddenly-

“Where’s Turin?” Beleg rasped. He opened one silver eye and Mablung cringed. 

“He is alive, although not making much sense. That stubborn boy went in after you.Praise the Valar he has some natural ability with swimming!”

Beleg looked horrified, though his exhausted body remained sprawled on the rocks.

“He’s being tended to by the others. He didn’t swallow a river, unlike _some_ people,” Mablung reassured, shuddering to think what Queen Melian was going to have to say about all of this. “He did manage to drag you to the bank, but he couldn’t get you ashore on his own.”

“Sorry you had to get wet….” Beleg murmured, and only years of experience assured Mablung it was a poor joke. Mablung hated swimming.

“You’re incorrigible.”

Eventually the Elven warriors found a way to get their two Captains and human ward from the depths of the underground riverbed. It had involved a bit of creativity but had not taken quite as long as Mablung had feared. However, it had been long enough for Beleg to lose consciousness once more.

The sooner they left this blasted forest behind, the better.

Mablung was cradling Beleg’s cold body to his chest, trying to offer some warmth, something that Beleg would have been furious over had he been conscious to endure it. Despite the heat of summer, his lithe frame was wrapped warmly in the cloak of the soldier’s uniform. His head was nestled against his friend’s shoulder and his legs were dangling over one arm. He looked as close to dead as one could get without _actually_ being dead. Chains still connected his wrists, ankles and neck. They had not the time or means to remove them now. 

Turin was walking silently beside Mablung, eyes seeking Beleg in the murky light of the wood. He seemed unable to look away from the unconscious Elf, and Mablung couldn’t help but feel mildly annoyed. Jealous? No, he wasn’t jealous. Certainly not.

At least the boy appeared to have returned to himself.

The spell that had turned Turin into the likeness of a dark-haired Elf had broken when the boy had hit the water. The enchanted water had cast its own spell, and the human had easily succumbed. While Beleg had only been mildly confused by the hallucinogenic properties, Turin had suffered fits. He had managed to dive below the surface, wrapping an arm around Beleg’s chest and pulling the limp Elf to the surface.

Going beneath the surface, however, had fully submerged him into the enchantment.

But then he had been unable to pull him to shore and suddenly hysterical screaming had started.

_“There’s blood! Blood everywhere!” His hollering was met by Mablung swimming quickly to his side._

_The Elf had found no fresh blood, but in the darkness, his Elven eyes could see the blue tint on Beleg’s lips and he realized that his friend was not breathing. His lungs were full of water._

_With all the strength of a powerful Elven warrior, he heaved Beleg up onto the bank. The moonlit-haired Elf tumbled from his grasp, a mass of water-logged limbs and chains. Rolling him onto his back, Mablung started pounding on the other’s chest, frantically attempting to get him to breathe. He pressed his mouth to Beleg’s icy lips, forcing warm air into his lungs before continued to compress his chest._

_Turin was kneeling on the ground, hands on his head. Tears were streaming down his face. “There’s so much blood! I’ve killed him! I killed him!” The boy was in hysterics._

_Mablung paid him no heed, focused on the task at hand, covering Beleg’s mouth again, breathing into him. Suddenly there was a spluttering cough, and Mablung sprung back as water bubbled up between Beleg’s lips._

0o0o0o0

At the first safe opportunity, once a satisfying number of miles were between them and the forest, the rescue party made camp. Their horses had returned to them, and thankfully no supplies had been lost. Elven horses were clever creatures.

Although not common with Elves, Mablung had insisted they set up a generic tent to allot Beleg some privacy and as much comfort as possible. He only desired to shelter him from the rest of the world right now.

Of course, Beleg was of a different mind.

Mablung had sent Turin out to warm some water to wash and dress Beleg’s injuries. Although, to be perfectly honest, he had just wanted some time alone with his closest friend, who was currently glowering at him from the bedroll on the ground, with no small amount of suspicion. “Don’t even think about it,” Beleg grumbled, sitting up, chained hands in his lap.

“I beg your pardon?” Mablung cocked an eyebrow.

“Smothering me like a mother coddles a babe.” His voice was still hoarse.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mablung countered smugly. “But your wounds I will see to.”

Beleg looked like he wanted to argue. His mouth opened and snapped closed a couple times, before he sighed exaggeratedly, slowly lying back into the bedroll, mindful of the lacerations to his back. He flinched ever so slightly, as the cuff of the iron around his neck bit into the skin, pinching. “As you wish. But can you not remove these fetters first?”

Mablung took a seat by Beleg’s head, crossing his legs under him. He could not help but feel slightly sheepish. “I tried, my friend. I am afraid they will not open.” 

Something akin to panic flickered across the other Elf’s bruised face. However, Beleg quickly stowed it in favor of licking his split lip.

“I’m not a jewelry loving sort of Elf,” Beleg complained, with no small amount of annoyance.

“I saw an incantation in the Black Speech on them.” 

Beleg smiled mirthlessly at that. His lip began to bleed anew. “I am certainly not healing as I should.”

“The lock won’t spring.” He had tried many times to pick the damn lock, and the mechanism simply wouldn’t budge. He held something of a personal grudge against it by now. At this rate, Melian herself was going to have to force the lock to give.

Beleg must have thought this too.

“It’s warded then,” he murmured. His voice was so hoarse, it pained Mablung to hear it.

“Likely,” Mablung admitted. Most Elves could pick a lock, or magic it open.

They sat in heavy silence, Mablung plucking at a thread on the bedroll and Beleg staring at the tent ceiling, watching the shadows.

Mablung spoke first, hanging his head. “I am sosorry I left your side.” His voice was low, lower than a whisper. “And please,” he held up his hand, “do not tell me not to ‘coddle you’. I nearly watched you die. Your skin was so cold. Your lips were blue… you were nearly beyond help on that riverbank. I have been so scared, scared of losing _you_ since Turin’s day of birth celebration. He was anxious when you did not show, but there was no one more scared than I. Scared of you dying, yet more scared that you were alive and at the mercy of a merciless dark power. You very nearly were this time!” The words tumbled out before he could stop himself, and he instantly wanted to take them back. Instead he leaned forward, pressing his face into Beleg’s shoulder. “Can you forgive me?”

Beleg he smelled of iron, leather, and blood. And something uniquely Beleg, perhaps like the forest after rain. 

Chains clinked, and then he felt Beleg’s fingers in his hair, cupping the back of his head and holding him in place. There was a tremor in his hands; pain, blood loss, or emotion, Mablung could not say. Beleg’s scratchy, kind voice murmured, “There is nothing to forgive, I am deeply sorry for having caused you so much pain, my dearest friend. Thank you for saving my life”

Beleg’s heartbeat was slightly erratic under his face, instead of the usual steady thrum.

Mablung sat up and Beleg’s hand fell away from his head. Their eyes met, and Mablung could see Beleg searching his face, concerned. “Your heart rate is too fast,” Mablung growled in manner of explanation. “Your wounds are festering.”

“I’m dehydrated,” Beleg countered. His weak protest might as well have fallen on deaf ears.

Batting his hands aside, Mablung began to peel back the filthy remnants of Beleg’s tunic, separating it from where it was stuck to skin with dried blood and river water.

The other watched him with an almost bemused expression, and a slight curl of his unusually pale lips.

Mablung couldn’t hide his sharp intake of breath at the site of the raw flesh, exposing a burn, and Beleg winced. He gave a weak excuse for a wink as Mablung scrutinized his visible flesh. “You’re making me quite uncomfortable with that gaze,” he joked. “Undressing me with your eyes?”

Mablung scowled at the banter. “You don’t need any more analgesic, I see.” He had given Beleg some poppy earlier, which is unfortunately all that they had available outside of the Healing Ward of Menegroth. He would slap Saeros for some Miruvor cordial right now. On second thought, he could slap him regardless.

Not that it had been easy to convince Beleg that he had needed pain medicine. That was, until the other Elf coughed and did his best to hide a gasp, attempting to cradle his broken ribs. He had been much more accepting after that.

Beleg closed his eyes tiredly, relaxing his head into the cloak rolled up behind it.

Mablung deftly began to peel back the tattered remains of Beleg’s tunic. Even in trying to be as gentle as possible, he saw his friend set his jaw more than once.“I was only jesting. You can have more poppy if you wish it.” 

Beleg rolled his eyes, although sweat beaded on his forehead, soaking into his hairline. It was excessive, even for the summer night. “Coddling.”

Accepting this as affirmation, Mablung fetched a small vial of poppy. Cupping the back of Beleg’s head, he put the medicine to the other’s lips and gently tipped it. He only felt his concern settle deeper when Beleg accepted the medication without a fuss.

The tent flap rustled, and Turin came striding in, carrying a kettle of steaming, hot water that he was doing his best not to slosh over the sides. Mablung was brushing some of Beleg’s muddy, sweat soaked hair from where it was stuck to his forehead, when he looked up to see the boy standing there.

Beleg closed his eyes in what looked like relief, resting, and blocking out the world. It was unlikely the poppy had made him dizzy just yet. Although generous with the dose, Mablung had not been quite _that_ generous, especially for an ancient Elf.

He took the water, freeing Turin of his burden. However, he watched as the human ward rushed to Beleg’s side, sinking to his knees.

His shaking hands hovered over Beleg’s pale ones, as though reluctant to touch him.

Shadows danced on the tent walls, in the candles’ glow.

Beleg opened one eye and forced a half smile. “Greetings child,” he said, reaching up with one of his chained hands, to collect one of Turin’s and draw it to towards him. “It’s quite alright. Mablung is being melodramatic.”

Leave it to Beleg to be reassuring, even after only barely escaping death.

“Says the Elf lying on his back with skin missing in multiple places, and pale as a sheet. The boy has eyes, Beleg!” Mablung retorted with a scowl, from where he was mixing what little herbs they had into a poultice.

“Oh, Beleg, my dear friend, what did they do to you?” Turin’s voice was soft, quiet even. He studied Beleg’s hand in his own. The child smelled of fear, and sometimes it was easy to forget that he was just that, a child.

“Nothing that won’t heal,” Beleg replied sleepily, visibly relaxing his grip in Turin’s hand and face starting to go slack with lines of pain easing among the amethyst bruises. The poppy was clearly starting to take effect. His silver eyes started to slide closed, and he blinked them, pulling himself back into the moment.

Mablung frowned. Of course, Beleg was fighting the strongest effects of the drug.

Turin grasped the marchwarden’s hand tighter, eyeing him fearfully as Beleg’s eyes took a glassy sheen and started to slide shut again. He was holding Beleg’s hand in two of his now, his mouth hovering above the Elf’s slender fingers. “Beleg..”

“It’s the poppy. It will make him sleepy. It will not last long in an Elf of his age and strength, we must work quickly."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter to go! Sorry that this one was so incredibly late. It's because I rewrote it 3 times, you see. I couldn't decide what direction I wanted. 
> 
> I hope all of you are keeping safe with this COVID-19. 
> 
> Please review! Thank you.


	7. What happens After...

It had been a rough journey back. Despite Beleg’s resolute denial, it was becoming more and more apparent that he remained in a considerable amount of pain. There were lines in his face that there had not been before, and dark circles accented his eyes like smeared kohl. The grey orbs looked large in his drawn face. Initially he had attempted to ride his own horse, insisting it was good for his spirits. However, after a few days’ time Mablung convinced him to share his horse.

It had been easier than it should have been, in his experience.

In the beginning Beleg had tried to sit around the fire with the Marchwardens and soldiers, but that only happened twice before he took to lying on his bedroll, almost listless with fatigue. Túrin stayed by his side, lying on his own bedroll discreetly staring at Beleg’s face as he slept, watching for signs of further discomfort or distress. Every now and then he would reach out and touch Beleg’s arm, either for reassurance for himself or for the Elf, Mablung was not sure.

Whether Beleg felt it or not, he also could not say.

It was not something the child should be seeing, but none of this was. And humans seemed to grow up all too quickly.

Beleg’s wounds were still bleeding. It was not severe bleeding, but it was almost ceaseless, staining his bandages red. Even the cuts on his cheek oozed red blood from time to time, sending a red rivulet down his chin. The evil of the chains only seemed to strengthen the more blood Beleg lost.

Mablung hated touching the accursed metal. Even without them clasped about him, he could feel the evil’s bitter sting on his hands. Nevertheless, he would hold them to try and offer Beleg some relief.

It did not work.

Beleg would not let Túrin touch them. And knowing what he knew of Morgoth’s curse, Mablung secretly thought that was best. 

They were about to cross Melian’s Girdle. Mablung could feel the familiar tingle in his hair and on his skin, the sheer power of the beautiful Maia, and he smiled. The air had an electric quality that only the very perceptive could sense. Beleg sensed it too, for he grabbed Mablung’s wrist from where he sat before him in the saddle, legs awkwardly hanging to one side because of the chains. Looking down at the fair-haired Elf in his lap, he felt his smile rapidly crumble with a cry. “Beleg!”

The other’s body was taught as a bow string and it was obvious that he was stifling a shout of pain.

The chains. 

“Burns,” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut, wrinkling his otherwise smooth brow. 

They had not even crossed the girdle yet. Now Mablung doubted that they could. If the chains had a volatile reaction to Queen Melian’s spell Beleg would die, and likely die poorly. At this distance alone, their potency had increased in rivalry to the Queen’s good. He could stay with Beleg and the Marchwardens, sending his own soldiers ahead of them to return with help.

“We’ll turn back, and make camp, and—”

“No,” Beleg hissed through grit teeth, swallowing pain like so much broken glass. “We have to cross it.”

“You’ll die—”

“She won’t kill me. I want to go home,” he bit out between his clenched teeth.

Queen Melian.

Mablung’s breath came out in a frustrated sigh, wanting to deny Beleg’s request yet knowing full well he was likely right. Beleg usually was, it could be one of his more frustrating qualities. No matter, he was still afraid. “You ask me to do something that could cost me my heart.”

“I will surely die if I become any weaker. You know this,” Beleg insisted, his voice nearly cracking.

Túrin stared at him from his own horse, eyes huge and mouth open as though he wanted to speak but had not the words.

Beleg bit back a growl of agony, breath coming in grunts.

Blood trickled from his nose.

His pain was great.

Mablung could not recall the last time he had heard Beleg make such noises of pain. His breast felt like it would shatter. He could not bear to look down at his friend’s tormented face.

Instead he looked ahead at the forest.

Beleg would do this for him, without a doubt. But Beleg was braver than he was.

Túrin rode his horse up beside Mablung’s. “You cannot do this. He will die! You cannot!” He reached for the reins to Mablung’s horse, but the Elven Captain stepped his horse out of reach with a squeeze of his thigh.

He clutched Beleg tightly to his chest. He had trusted him and trusted him still. That had to be enough. He had nothing else. Beleg had nothing else. He would not deny him this chance at life.

He had not saved Beleg from the orcs to lose him thus, to foul chains and the evil sorcery of Gorthaur.

Giving no chance for further objections, he charged his horse forward at a gallop.

Everything happened incredibly fast.

They cleared Melian’s Girdle in seconds.

He felt something wet on his arm and realized the bandages on Beleg’s back and chest were bleeding through, saturating his tunic in hot sticky blood. He could not tell who was screaming, himself or Beleg. He only knew that his chest was vibrating, and his ears were roaring.

Then they were tumbling to the earth, sliding to a stop in the leaves, which churned up in a flurry of debris. The horse had reared in terror at the screams of its riders.

And then everything was quiet.

Beleg was lying still in his arms, but the chains were broken. They were not merely opened, they were reduced to powder, revealing ugly bruising and burns where they had choked before. The iron had been incinerated.

Beleg’s eyelids fluttered, and he sucked in a deep breath. “That hurt much more…than I had anticipated.” He grimaced, attempting to sit up. Mablung pushed him back onto the ground, gently forcing him to rest.

“You are naught but trouble, my friend,” Mablung grumbled good naturedly, and Beleg merely grunted. His face was an entirely different shade of pale, rather it was ashen. Panic shot through Mablung’s chest, and he shook off the last of his confusion from the fall. “You’ve lost too much blood!”

“I think you may be right…” Beleg’s silver eyes were looking slightly glassy, and unfocused, like he was fighting unconsciousness for all he was worth. Until suddenly, he was not.

By now Túrin had thrown himself from his horse and was dropping to his knees by the two Elves, dread written on his face as Beleg’s eyes rolled back. “Mablung! Do something, please!”

Mablung had already began to scoop Beleg from the ground. He was much lighter without the chains about his neck and limbs, that was certain. “Quiet, child! I have to think.”

He strode past Túrin, as though he was not even there. The human boy jumped up to follow.

 _“Bring Cúthalion to me, that I may heal him. Do not stop. Make haste!”_ A melodious, strong voice whispered in his mind and he immediately recognized it has his Queen.

“Stars!” Was all Mablung could bring himself to curse as he cradled Beleg in his arms, partially grateful he was unconscious so that he did not have to hear his protests. Their horse was waiting for him, and he could swear the creature looked at least slightly ashamed of throwing them to the forest floor.

Reading the situation, the animal lowered itself to the ground, allowing Beleg to be placed on the horse first, followed by Mablung at his back. The horse immediately stood up, tossing its head.

“Where are you going?” Túrin shouted. “Where are you taking him?”

“I haven’t time to explain. We will meet in Menegroth.” Mablung urged the horse into a full gallop again, and they disappeared onto a trail that only the Elves knew.

Túrin was furious at being, once again, left behind. “Bloody Elves!” he cursed, only too soon remembering the company he kept. The March-wardens and soldiers were preoccupied, however, seeing their two captains fleeing ahead. If they heard his curse, they paid it no mind.

Remounting his own horse, Túrin spurred the animal onward, determined to catch up to Mablung, swiftness of Elves be damned.

0o0o0o0o0

Ordinarily, Mablung would have stopped his horse after the bridge into Menegroth and not rode the creature into the caves. However, these were extraordinary times and so the horse carried the two Elves over the stone bridge, into the halls of the underground city. Elves leapt from his path, crying out in surprise. Hooves clattered on the stone pathways, echoing in the large halls and off ornate pillars. Dismounting in front of the throne room doors, Mablung collected Beleg, clasping him close. The archer’s head lay against his arm, and his dirty, moonlit hair nearly brushed against Mablung’s boots, pulled free of any braid that once held it.

He looked lifeless.

Mablung hurried his steps and then upon seeing King Thingol and Queen Melian seated in their respective seats, he stopped, bowing his head in reverence. “Your majesties, please forgive my intrusion. Beleg Cúthalion is dying. He has lost much blood! I beg your assistance! Please! And I will do whatever you will.”

He held Beleg closer, fingers twisting in the fabric of his tunic, as though he could keep him in Beleriand by sheer will alone.

He knew members of the court were staring, startled to see the Elf of legend bloodied and at death’s door. He certainly did not appear as Daeron’s ballads usually detailed. Though, Daeron tended to take poetic license. 

King Thingol’s face drained of color as he stood from his throne, formality forgotten, eyes fixed on Beleg in disbelief. However, it was Queen Melian that reached the pair of Marchwardens first, serene, immaculate. Her crown of white gold glittered, as though set with stars and galaxies. Mablung was certain she did not walk, but rather glided. He would later say that he never even saw her rise from her throne. 

She stood before them, staring curiously at Beleg’s face. She reached for him, placing a beautiful to cradle his bloodied cheek. “My most loyal and fearless guardian, protector of all that is good. Defender of the helpless. Friend of Túrin, whom we love--” And with that, she stooped and pressed a chaste kiss to the center of his forehead. “--awaken and mend. Your time has not yet come. Dark are the days ahead, and there is need for you still.”

Her hand slipped from his face, and she stepped away, watching the pair with a knowing expression.

At first Beleg’s breathing started to deepen, evening after a couple breaths. And he felt warm in Mablung’s grasp.

Soon, his lips were touched with pink, and those stormy grey eyes fluttered open, clear, and bright.

They quickly scanned the room before landing on Queen Melian who had returned to her place at King Thingol’s side, and then he closed them in reverence, nodding his head as best as he could. “Thank you, my most radiant Queen.” His voice still rasped as he struggled to speak. “Captain,” he gazed up at Mablung, “I would be most appreciative if you could set me to stand.”

Mablung hesitated, a part of him afraid that Beleg’s legs would not yet bear his weight. The last thing he needed was for Beleg to collapse in front of Saeros or any of the stuffy councilors for that matter. Though he supposed Beleg resented being held like a faint maid, as well. He also thought it was rude to not trust the Queen’s healing spell. “Of course, Captain.” He carefully eased Beleg free of his arms.

To his astonishment, the fair-haired Elf stood erect, with no indication of any pain.

“Please excuse our roughened appearances in your hall, your Majesties,” he rasped, clearing his throat.

They did look quite the sight.

Mablung supposed these Elves were not used to seeing the full cost of their safety, or the effects of battle and torment. A small part of him hoped they soaked it all in, the blood and dirt that covered Beleg’s battered frame. How close to death’s door he had been. All of it.

From a far corner, Saeros sneered, snide as ever.

Mablung shot him a withering glare, daring him to speak.

Beleg paid the councilor no mind, slowly kneeling on one knee and bowing as best as he could without becoming dizzy. “Thank you, my most beautiful Queen, for saving my life. I am both honored and humbled. Ask anything of me, and I will do it.”

“Cúthalion,” Melian replied. “The honor is ours, that you have returned to our halls.”

Saeros’ eyes narrowed in disapproval, but he said nothing. A couple councilors near him shifted uncomfortably.

The throne room doors suddenly were thrown open, and Túrin sprinted into the space. A collective murmur and gasp were taken up, and Thingol’s face immediately darkened as the oncoming of a storm. The boy cleared the throne room in a rush, skidding to a stop before Beleg, who had stood and whirled around to see the commotion.

Mablung winced as he watched the child’s arms encircle Beleg’s middle, grasping him close. Túrin looked up at the Elf, blue eyes impossibly large. Though, Mablung realized that eventually, it may very well be Beleg looking up at Túrin. “You live! Oh, Beleg, you live!”

Beleg held perfectly still -possibly from pain or surprise, and then he slowly set his hands on the boy’s slender shoulders. He smiled down, grey eyes sparkling with something akin to amusement. “Of course,” was all he said at first. Then lowering his face to Túrin’s ear, he whispered, “entering a court in such a manner is highly uncouth, son of Man. I suggest you apologize.”

Túrin stiffened at the mild rebuke.

Mablung watched as the dark-haired youth pulled free from Beleg and turned to his foster-parents. To his credit, he did appear to have some shame, Mablung thought, even if it was forced. He had never seen the child humbly apologize to anyone, save Beleg on occasion.

“I apologize for entering your court room thus, my King and Queen.” He gave a small, curt bow, face unreadable. 

Only Beleg could ask Túrin to do something so modest, in front of Saeros no less. Even King Thingol would have received a scowl for his trouble, although Túrin did adore the Queen.

Beleg suddenly looked tired, like the breath was stolen from his lungs and for a second his proud face faltered. Mablung had seen enough, there was no need to continue parading in front of the nobility. He was certain this was not the experience that wild Beleg had hoped to awaken to. “My King and Queen, with your leave, we will depart to the Healing Wing.” 

“As you will Captain,” Thingol addressed Mablung. He raised an eyebrow and the captain braced for the caveat. “I would like to receive a full report at the first opportunity.”

Túrin at least had the patience and presence of mind to wait patiently for dismissal, which likely was not going to happen anytime soon. 

Beleg nodded in deference to the King and Queen before starting for the door. Mablung frowned to himself, watching Beleg proudly lift his head over squared shoulders, pulling his thick mass of snarled pale hair to one side. If he were determined to walk on his own, Mablung would leave him to it, but he did not have to like it.

Once through the doors and down the corridors towards the Healing Wing, Beleg slowed considerably. His gait stiffened and Mablung rolled his eyes. “I ought to make you walk the rest of the way,” he teased, preparing to throw one of the other’s arms over his shoulder to help him along. He knew Beleg would not willingly let him carry him again. 

“Oh, I _shall_ walk the rest of the way. I just need a moment.” He smirked. It was rather weak, but it was there in the bow of his pretty mouth.

“Very well, walk on!” Mablung crossed his arms emphatically. “I’ll just follow you to pick you up off of the floor.”

Beleg was accustomed to quietly entering and exiting rooms, situations, and gatherings. As a matter of fact, he could be quite sneaky, although not in a bad way, at least not often, Mablung reflected. So, when he crossed the threshold of the Healing Wing (on his own!) and the Chief healer, Narchon, threw up his hands and exclaimed “Ai! Cúthalion! What have you done?” Beleg almost flinched.

Narchon was the only one besides Mablung himself that could ever get Beleg to flinch.

“You are covered in blood! Please tell me that’s not yours!” Narchon continued emphatically, rushing up to his patient. Beleg could not stop a timely sway in his steps, which Mablung knew he would deny until the day Arda was remade. “It _is_ your blood! Stars above!”

Mablung reached out and caught his arm, holding the Chief Marchwarden upright. Beleg did not even try to pull himself free, a testament to his blood loss and weariness.

“I will heal,” Beleg muttered defensively. He glowered at Mablung, as though this was somehow completely his fault, and the dark-haired Elf shrugged innocently.

Narchon took Mablung’s place, supporting Beleg as he started to guide him back to the infirmary.

“I will leave him in your capable hands, Narchon,” Mablung bowed curtly. “My dearest Beleg, I wish you to feel better as soon as possible. I will see you again shortly!”

He was not about to stick around to hear the complaining, especially if Beleg deigned to disagree -perhaps vehemently, over a treatment.

0o0o0o0

It was well into the night when Beleg finally was permitted to return to his room, under stringent orders to rest. Well, he interpreted it as ‘rest’. Narchon’s exact orders were “bedrest for two days”. He never stayed down so long, and his quarters were humble, so he did not think it mattered overly much if he walked about his own home. It consisted of a small space to take meals, a single dresser, a bed, and a chair.

His soft, feather down bed did look inviting, however. Though it always felt odd at first, after months of sleeping in a straw bed, or usually on the ground. He sat upon its edge, reveling for a moment in the plush give of the down and the soft caress of the blankets.

It felt oddly good.

While in the Healing Wing, he had been given a thorough bath and his long, full silvery white hair was still damp. However, at least it was clean, he mused and wrapped a length of it around his finger. He stared at his wrist, or rather both, wrapped in pristine white linen bandages to cover raw, tender skin. Beleg turned his hands over, flexing them experimentally. He missed Belthronding. 

Reminded of his neck, he reached up and gingerly touched the bandage encircling his throat. The ointment was doing a fine job of reducing the burning pain. He could not be bothered to inspect the bandages on his ankles, but they felt quite better as well. 

The rest of him was covered in a long night tunic and silky blue robe.

He was already dressed for it, he really should retire for sleep, he ruminated. Instead, he found himself staring at his hands in his lap, lost in his own thoughts.

A rap at his door pulled him from his reflections. “It’s open,” he called softly, not really in the mood for visitors. He had expected Mablung would come by though, unable to pass up the opportunity to mother him properly. However, Mablung was rarely in the habit of knocking anymore. 

“Túrin?” he found himself questioning as a head of black hair peaked around the door.

“I sought you in the Healing Ward. They said you would not stay, and that you went home,” the boy said, coming in and closing the door with a soft click. He leaned back against it. “I thought to check on you.”

“Oh?” Beleg entertained, amused.

“I thought you may need some cheering up…”

“So, my good King Thingol and Queen Melian did not decide to lock you up after all?” The Elf teased. 

Túrin scowled at the memory. “They were unhappy, yes. But I was not confined to my chambers.”

Beleg was more concerned with him being locked in a jail cell until he reached majority. When was human majority anyway?

Beleg did not envy the King and Queen their responsibility to the youth. Disciplining the Marchwardens was much simpler. Children were complicated. At one point, he had considered fatherhood, but this entire affair had only confirmed his decision not to wed. He would hardly make a good father, being away as often as he was, and if he could not tame the wild in himself, how so could he tame a child?

“Well, I am sure you frightened them. Thingol and Melian do love you, in their own way,” Beleg offered, attempting to help Túrin understand. 

“Did I frighten _you_?” He asked after a moment, still standing awkwardly by the closed door. Beleg briefly wondered what the boy’s reaction would be if he lied and said ‘no’.

“Of course, you did! You should not have come after me. I still mean to have a word with Mablung about that. Túrin, what were you thinking?”

“I could not bear to lose you Beleg—”

“Your mother,” and Beleg knew to tread lightly here, “was promised by your foster-father that you would be safe! Would you compromise his word to your mother?”

“That is a low blow Beleg!” Túrin snarled. “Fight fairly!”

“Calm yourself. That is plenty fair.” 

Túrin frowned, then looked at the floor. He shoved himself off the closed door and sat down at Beleg’s side with a quiet sigh. Túrin set his leg against Beleg’s, craving the comfort of contact, but not necessarily wanting an embrace.

They sat in silence, but Beleg was uneasy. They both studied the stone floor, covered with a decorative wool rug Beleg had purchased some years ago. It was white and served to help bright the room and was soft underfoot.

After a few moments, the Elf could bear the silence no longer. It was not like Túrin to back down from an argument, particularly where his mother was involved. Although the boy was given to brooding silences, this one felt heavy. “Túrin, what troubles you?”

The boy looked up, and to his sorrow, Beleg saw that his blue eyes were wet with unshed tears. They glittered at the edges of his eyes. “Beleg, where do Elves go when they die?”

Beleg blinked a few times in surprise, clearing his throat. “My dear child what makes you ask this?”

Reniedir had asked him the same question shortly before being ripped to pieces before his very eyes.

_“What do you think happens after…?”_

Túrin ran his sleeve across his face and shook his head as though to gain composure. “I saw an Elf in the grass. At first, I thought it was you. Yet when I ran to him his hair was dark. I saw….his eyes were open, milk colored and lifeless… I…I was so scared it was you. Then I felt relief. But I bear the sorrow still.”

Heedless of his own aches -his pain medication was wearing off, Beleg wrapped an arm around Túrin’s shoulders, pulling him close. He was shaking against Beleg’s side. “Oh Túrin, he is safe now. He is not suffering. I am sorry that you saw that.”

“Men did that to him?” Túrin asked, staring at his unsteady hands.

“Easterlings, yes.”

Túrin was silent, and Beleg wondered what was going through his head. This was the exact reason he had been sent to Doriath by the Lady Morwen; to avoid a life of slavery and death.

“I cannot get his face out of my head, Beleg.”

Beleg set his chin on Túrin’s head, continuing to hold him close. “Neither can I,” he murmured, chest suddenly feeling tight. He pushed the feeling down. He was an adult, and thousands of years old. He could control his emotions. Sadly, Reniedir’s lifeless face was just one of many lifeless faces that haunted his memories.

“Who was he?”

“The brother of a dear friend of mine,” Beleg answered softly, swallowing around the lump in his throat. Poor Calithildir was going to be devastated if he was of the mental capacity to understand.

“Oh Beleg, I am so sorry!” Túrin pulled free of Beleg’s embrace, twisting under his arm to look at his face. Beleg could see him trying to read the pain his expression.

“I will be alright,” the Elf answered reflexively.

“Will I ever close my eyes and not see his face?” Túrin asked, ever so carefully leaning against Beleg’s side again, careful of his broken ribs.

Beleg kissed his black hair soothingly. It smelled of lavender and some other scent he could not identify. “Someday, yes. Have you spoken to your foster-mother about this? She is wise, she could—”

“Nay, I cannot speak to her like this.”

Beleg sighed knowingly. Thingol was not any more helpful, this he knew. “It will get easier with time,” the Elf offered thoughtfully, though that was partially a lie. “You can always come to me. Always.” He pulled the child closer for emphasis.

Túrin reached over and picked up Beleg’s other hand, studying the bandage on his wrist, playing gently with the Elf’s pale fingers. “Were you scared? Truly?”

“At times,” Beleg answered as honestly as he dared. He probably should have been more frightened than he had been, especially at certain points. If experience was any guide.

Túrin continued to idly play with his hand, satisfied with his answer or not knowing what to say. “We should get some rest,” Beleg decided, releasing his embrace. In truth, his wounds were paining him, and he felt the familiar fatigue setting into his bones.

Túrin made no move to rise. Instead, he stared up at Beleg with huge blue eyes. “May I stay with you? I’ll be quiet as a mouse, I promise!”

Silence.

Túrin was traumatized, that much was apparent. “I suppose there is room,” Beleg said at last, not knowing what else to say. Then reconsidering, “your foster-parents will not be angry that you did not sleep in your own bed, in your own home?”

“I will go back before dawn, I promise.”

“I do not wish to gain the King’s ire. I am not your foster-father. And you should not be scurrying around these streets before dawn,” Beleg tried to be assertive.

“Never! He adores you, Beleg! As does my foster-mother. Besides, she will know where I am,” Turin begged.

Beleg groaned internally, not sure that helped matters at all. However, he was finding he was too weary to argue. “Alright, but this is only for tonight.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Thank you! You won’t even know I’m here!”

The Elf yawned. “If you say so, son of Húrin.”

Beleg turned down the bed, which smelled mildly stuffy from lack of use. Exhausted, the Elf folded into the bed, relaxing on his back into the soft down with a pleasant sigh that he was almost embarrassed about. Although he was not certain the boy had heard anything.

If he had, he did not remark on it.

Mablung would have sniggered.

Túrin, being able bodied, had insisted on putting out the lamp, although he did not have Elven vision to see in the dark.

Beleg felt the mattress dip under Túrin’s weight, slight though it was.

“Goodnight, Beleg.”

“Goodnight, _penneth_.”

Soon the boy’s breathing evened out, and the Elf was certain he was asleep.

0o0o0o0

Beleg was not sure when he had finally fallen asleep -his own nightmares to deal with, but he could have only been asleep a couple of hours when he woke with a start. His senses instantly sharpened, and he sat up slowly, eyes adjusting to the dark. “Mablung, by the stars! What are you doing here at such an hour?”

“The hour of _noon_ , my dear Beleg?” Mablung smirked from his spot in Beleg’s chair at his bedside, long legs crossed elegantly under flowing robes. He must have duties in the king’s courtroom today.

Beleg groaned, lowering himself back onto his pillow to stare at his ceiling beams. “How long have you been here?” He looked over, and noticed Túrin was long gone, the bed cold where he had lain.

Beleg’s oil lamps were already lit, brightening the room. Unfortunately, a City of a Thousand Caves did not leave many -if any, options for natural sunlight. It was one of the reasons that Beleg found it to feel so cramped and confining.

Mablung shrugged. “I have only just arrived. I was going to let you rest a bit longer, but your senses are sharp as ever.”

Beleg rolled his eyes but made no move to rise from the bed just yet. He felt stiff and sore.

“How do you feel?” Mablung ventured, timely as ever.

“Like I ended up on the wrong end of a troll’s mace,” Beleg muttered. He slowly sat, and ran a hand through his long silver locks, which were currently mussed with sleep. “However, that is an improvement.”

“I’d imagine so,” the dark-haired Elf smiled. He offered Beleg a glass of water, and Beleg accepted it gratefully. His mouth felt like cotton, likely a side effect of the pain medication and other herbal treatments he had endured yesterday.

Thankfully, his stomach received it well. He sat to the side of the bed, finding the will to be steady.

Mablung had set a bowl of warm oats and berries on his small table, along with a glass of rich goat’s milk. He suddenly felt hungrier than he had felt in an exceptionally long time. 

The oats were sweet, and Beleg had to admit, he had not eaten anything this substantial or tasteful in months, even before his capture. It felt heavy on his stomach, but in a delightful way.

“How was court this morning?” He asked between bites of oatmeal and sips of milk. There was only one reason Mablung would wear such a pretentious outfit.

The dark-haired Elf sat across from him. “Well, we apparently made quite the entrance yesterday.” Mablung’s face contorted in annoyance. “Don’t smile like that!”

Beleg could not help smiling innocently. He was sure that the courtiers were startled by the blood. He also doubted that they had ever seen a mostly dead Elf before. Perhaps some of them had, but for the majority it was likely a novel concept. “I think I provided a stunning visual.”

Mablung sighed. “You are going to need to recount your tale. Easterlings, orcs, the death of a Lord’s eldest son, not to mention the return of their youngest. They have a lot of questions, and my written report spares too many details.”

Beleg felt himself go rigid and his shoulders tightened.

“They will not question Cal.” It was a statement. Although Calithildir was familiar with all the members of court, Beleg would be damned if the traumatized Elf was going to be questioned by any of them. At best, Cal would be humiliated. At worst he would be terrified. Beleg had failed to protect him once. It would not happen again.

Though perhaps Cal’s father would not let it get so far, but at this point Beleg was not particularly impressed with his parenting.

“No, not if you can recount events to their satisfaction,” Mablung lowered his voice, “They will not want to see the cruelty he suffered anyway, and your word carries much weight.” 

“Can I not have a private hearing with Elwë ?”

“I advocated for that, but unfortunately too many seek answers who rightfully should know them.”

“What will become of Cal?” Beleg asked warily.

“I managed to secure his return to Menegroth. His safest care is still in discussion. There is time, but he undoubtedly needs some time in the Healing Wing.”

They both knew he would never be the same.

“There is something you should know.” Beleg had never intended to tell anyone about Reniedir’s treachery, certainly not his family. He had vowed Cal would never know, and he intended to keep it that way. “Reniedir did some things that I am sure he is answering for now.”

Mablung’s instant scowl would have sent chills down an ordinary Elf’s spine. “What. Did. He. Do?”

Beleg was not ordinary and was therefore, unphased.

“Calm yourself and don’t scowl so. Cal had been captured by Easterlings and was held by them for years. They did unspeakable evils to him. Well fate was on Calithildir’s side because they managed to capture Reniedir—"

“Who should have never been that far from his boarder duties,” Mablung pointed our darkly.

“We both know he was never one for listening, let alone listening to me. Now are you going to let me finish?”

“As much as it infuriates me where this is going, yes,” the dark-haired Elf bit out.

“He discovered they had his brother, and he decided to barter for his life and freedom. He resolved to give me up to them. When they released Calithildir into Doriath, that was the signal he waited for.”

Mablung said nothing, and Beleg knew it was for his benefit. The other had nothing kind to speak.

“Mablung, believe me, he suffered greatly. He paid the price for his betrayal,” Beleg implored, very serious. “And he apologized before the end. He also asked that Calithildir not know, and I told him that he would not learn it from me. The Elf has been through quite enough.”

“You don’t plan to speak of this.” Mablung crossed his arms.

Beleg considered his words carefully. “He is dead and all those who conspired with him. What good will it do?” Beleg asked. “It may even bring Cal’s loyalty into question, undeserved, simply for being alive.”

“We’ll work on this. This hearing is not for a fortnight. You need to recover. In the meantime, perhaps if we bring this first before the King, he will have some guidance. The wise and beautiful Melian sees into hearts. I do not believe Calithildir will be unsafe.”

Beleg did not say anything, suddenly feeling much more tired. “Did you come here to merely add to my weariness, or are you here to cheer my heart?”

Mablung looked as though he had been struck. “You asked me about court, Strongbow. I am sorry it causes you grief.”

“So I did,” Beleg admitted. “I was curious to know, but now I find it taxing.” He leaned back in his chair, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling in exasperation. Silver sleep ruffled hair cascaded over the back of the chair.

“You always find it taxing. Has anyone seen to your wounds today?” Mablung inquired gently. Beleg could feel his gaze on his bandaged throat. 

“I only need supplies. I can see to them myself.”

“You need sunlight, and meadow flowers. That’s better medicine for you than these caves.”

Beleg sat forward again, but he could not altogether hide the grin pulling on his face. “Always the negotiator.”

“I believe Narchon would call me a ‘conspirator’,” Mablung winked. “I will go change out of these robes and I’ll be back within the hour. You should probably get dressed yourself.”

0O0O0O0

When Mablung returned, Beleg had pulled his long hair into a single plait that ran down to the small of his back. He was not proud of his braid; he had made better. However, the mobility in his wrists was not completely returned and stiffened his movements. He wore green leggings, and a long brown tunic that came to midthigh, simple but elegant. Its collar ran up his neck, hiding the white bandage. Soft leather boots covered his feet and calves. They were not red; those boots did not survive captivity. Unfortunately, he would need to visit a cobbler.

Mablung was dressed much the same, but with a pack slung over his shoulder. 

A couple hours later had them approaching a small meadow, teeming with wildflowers, bees, and butterflies. The grasses were tall and warm in the feverish sun. It was a place Beleg had discovered many centuries ago, outside city limits. It had hardly changed, still known to only those two.

Beleg waded into its center. “To think I may have never seen this place again.”

Mablung threw his pack down, settling into the grass, heedless of the bees buzzing in the surrounding flowers. He lay back, one hand behind his head. “Here, lie down. Rest.”

He reached up and pulled gently at Beleg’s hand. Had Beleg not been injured, he knew Mablung would have practically yanked his arm from its socket to send him sprawling into the grass -or try to. In the past it had been a fun game of theirs.

Beleg smiled down at his friend, and using Mablung’s stomach as a pillow, nestled into the grass on his back, closing his eyes against the afternoon sun. He felt the dark-haired Elf’s hand in his hair, running soothingly through the silver strands. Mablung probably was not even aware he was doing it, but Beleg did not mind. Quite the opposite.

Beleg drew a long breath through his nose, feeling the air fill his lungs, smelling the hot grass and warm dirt. He could smell the wildflowers -the last of them before autumn and then winter. They smelled sweet, better than any perfume he had ever endured. “Do you remember when we used to lay and watch the stars? Before the daylight was here.”

The skies had been in comparable. Hundreds of thousands of sparkling lights in an obsidian cloak. And when the lakes and streams were still, the reflection was mesmerizing. One could literally swim among the stars.

“Mmmm hm,” Mablung hummed in agreement, starting to doze. His hand slowed in Beleg’s hair and then stilled, coming to rest on his own chest. “Simpler times.”

“We still got into plenty of trouble.”

“You mean _you_ got into plenty of trouble,” the dark-haired Elf woke up enough to protest.

Beleg lay quietly for a moment. “With you by my side,” he mumbled sleepily, allowing a heaviness to overtake him.

Mablung was his constant. The one he could always rely on, honest and true of heart. Beleg had woken with no one beside him at the lake and spent several hundred years wandering alone, besides the forest animals and spirits. But he had found his family over time, the ones who were not frightened of his restlessness. He had always done his best to try and love them in return. Mablung was one of the last ones left. The life of a Marchwarden was brutal. He had laid several close brothers to rest in the last two hundred years alone.

While he feared having to say good-bye to Mablung someday, he feared even more that Mablung would likely have to bury him.

Mablung feared it too. Beleg knew. 

It was hard to harbor such dark thoughts in the sunshine, which had warmed him delightfully, and he let the sadness melt from his consciousness. Time slipped away from them as the slept peacefully in the grass, away from orcs, the shadow and poison of Gorthaur and the bustling of King Thingol’s court and streets. 

When Beleg woke it was to Mablung slowly sitting up, and the stars reeling overhead. Crickets could be heard, and the wind was gently ruffling the grass. It was a balmy night, as many were in the bounds of the Girdle. Beleg gazed sleepily up at his friend, smiling warmly. “Feeling better?” Mablung asked, staring down at the face in his lap with a playful grin.

“Much,” Beleg answered with a small yawn. “Caves are for Dwarves.” He sat up, feeling much more himself than he had in many, many days. “What is the hour? We surely have missed dinner.”

The moon was high in the sky.

Mablung reached over and grabbed his pack, rummaging in it for a moment. He pulled out some items wrapped in cloth. “Never mind that. I brought these.” He produced some soft yeast rolls, cheese, and a pair of apples.

“Clever,” Beleg mused.

They ate, still gazing up at the sky and constellations. Wilwarin was bright in the sky, the image of a beautiful butterfly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! So, closure is coming! An Epilogue is to come. God willing, it happens more quickly than this chapter, which is only just shy of 2 months in the finalizing, several months in the drafting.
> 
> But at least they're home now, right? :-)
> 
> Please let me know what you think! It was very hard to find a mood for this chapter, and I tried not to jump the shark. Many scenes were written, or rewritten. There are many loose ends to tie up, I know. I think I addressed most of them. Unfortunately Calithildir and his family will have to wait until the Epilogue.
> 
> For my next story I am considering a Mablung-centric angsty fic, putting them forward by a few more years so Turin is old enough to have sought his shield and sword, and he's turned loose upon the world with Beleg. 
> 
> I have 3 story ideas to come, total. So, there will be plenty of angst and cuddles to go around...for now. 
> 
> Hope you are staying safe in the chaos of 2020!


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